secois 


-D-SON 


AVO-W-OUPHANT 


THE   SECOND   SON 


A   NOVEL 


BY 

M.  O.  W.  OLIPHANT 

AND 

T.  B.  ALDRICH 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1887  and  1888, 

Bl  IIOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &   CO. 

AND  T.  B.  ALDRICH. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Presf,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


L 

•MB 

THE  FAMILY  AT  MELCOMBE       1 

IL 
THEIR  NEIGHBORS 11 


in. 

BROTHERS 24 

rv. 

THE  WEST  LODGE 35 

V. 
AFTER  DINNER .    49 

VI. 
NINA 62 

vn. 

MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER 76 

vni. 

PRIMOGENITURE 88 

EX. 

MOUNT  TRAVERS 100 

X. 
THE  LAWYER Ill 

XL 
THE  SQUIBE 122 


CONTENTS. 
XIL 


MB.  MITFOBD'S  INVESTIGAT 

IONS       

132 

xm. 

143 

XIV. 

A  NEW  ACTOB      .        .    . 

153 

XV. 

LOVE     

164 

XVI. 

THOUGHTS  AND  TALKS   .    . 

176 

XVII. 

SOCIAL  PHILOSOPHY  .    .    . 

187 

xvm. 

THE  RETUBN    

198 

XIX. 

209 

XX. 

220 

XXI. 

SUBSTITUTION     

231 

xxn. 

A  MIDNIGHT  TALK    .    .    . 

,    ....  242 

xxm. 

,    ....  249 

XXIV. 

....  260 

XXV. 

LILY'S  RESOLUTION    .... 

....  272 

XXVL 

AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION 

....  283 

CONTENTS.  V 

XXVII. 
IN  THE  TOILS 291 

XXVIIL 

A  NIGHT  IN  THE  STREETS .  303 


XXIX. 
THE  KNIGHT-ERRANT  AND  THE  DETECTIVE 314 

XXX. 
CARRYING  EVIL  TIDINGS 325 

XXXL 

THREE  BROTHERS  .  335 


XXXII. 
STEPHEN'S  ANSWER 345 

XXXIII. 
THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH 355 

XXXIV. 
A  DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY 368 


XXXV. 
PATERNAL  ADVICE 377 

XXXVI. 
AT  THE  RECTORY 389 

XXXVII. 
EDMUND  OUT  OF  HEART 399 

xxxvm. 

THE  WEST  LODGE 408 

XXXIX. 
THE  SQUIRE  IN  THE  WRONG 420 

XL. 
AN  ALTERCATION 431 

XLI. 
AT  MOUNT  TRAVBRS .440 


vi  CONTENTS. 

XLIL 
A  REVELATION 450 

XLIIL 

THE  CULPRIT'S  REVENGE 462 

XUV. 
THE  SQUIRE  GOES  HOME 472 

XLV. 
AFTER  THE  STORM .*....  484 

XLVI. 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  SQUIRE 497 

XLVIL 
THE  BREAK-UP 507 

XLVIIL 
THE  MINGLED  THREAD 515 


THE   SECOND   SON. 


THE   FAMILY    AT    MELCOMBE. 

MR.  MITFOKD  of  Melcombe  had  three  sons.  His 
estates  lay  in  one  of  the  richest  of  the  midland 
counties,  and  they  were  not  entailed.  His  house 
was  not  very  imposing  nor  beautiful  in  itself,  being 
of  comparatively  recent  erection,  and  built  at  a  period 
when  comfort  within  was  more  considered  than  beauty 
without.  It  was  low,  no  more  than  two  stories  in 
height,  but  spreading  over  a  wide  area,  with  a  long 
garden  front  which  permitted  a  very  handsome  suite 
of  rooms  ;  delightful  to  live  in,  though  without  archi- 
tectural pretensions  of  any  kind.  Though  the  house 
was  so  recent,  the  Mitfords  had  been  at  Melcombe 
for  as  many  centuries  as  were  necessary  to  establish 
their  claims  as  county  gentry  of  high  position,  and 
had  met  with  those  misfortunes  which  are  almost  as 
indispensable  as  success  and  prosperity  to  the  thor- 
ough establishment  of  an  old  race.  They  had  suffered 
more  or  less  in  the  Jacobite  rebellions,  their  house  had 
been  burnt  down  more  than  once,  they  had  given 
their  family  valuables  to  the  king  when  he  was  at  Ox- 
ford. These  circumstances  made  the  fact  that  their 
house  was  new  and  ugly,  their  plate  a  little  scanty, 


2  THE  SECOND  SON. 

their  jewels  defective,  rather  a  point  of  pride  than 
of  humiliation  for  the  family.  It  was  also  rather  a 
feather  in  their  cap  that  the  entail  embraced  only  a 
very  small  portion  of  their  possessions  ;  for  had  it  not 
been  broken  in  haste  during  the  eighteenth  century, 
in  order  to  leave  the  heir  free  to  follow  Prince  Charlie 
without  ruining  the  family  in  case  the  Hanoverians 
should  hold,  as  happened,  the  winning  side  ? 

This  step,  however,  is  a  very  important  one,  when 
the  family,  and  not  the  individual  possessor,  is  taken 
into  view.  It  is  generally  supposed  that  the  law  of 
natural  justice  requires  the  abrogation  of  all  such 
restrictions  as  those  involved  in  laws  of  primogeni- 
ture and  entail.  But  there  are,  as  usual  with  most 
human  questions,  two  ways  of  looking  at  this  matter. 
If  you  have  made  a  great  deal  of  money,  it  is  only 
right  that  you  should  have  the  power  of  dividing  it 
among  your  descendants,  or  (which  is  still  another 
view)  giving  it  to  whom  you  choose.  But  when  an 
inheritance  has  been  handed  down  to  you  by  your 
fathers  and  grandfathers  in  succession,  the  natural 
justice  runs  all  the  other  way.  Then  it  becomes  a 
breach  of  right  to  contradict  the  purpose  with  which 
it  was  constituted,  the  limitations  under  which  you  re- 
ceived it,  since  it  is  not  your  property  at  all  save  in 
trust.  But  this  is  neither  the  moment  nor  the  place 
for  a  treatise  upon  the  English  laws  of  succession. 
Mr.  Mitford  was  a  man  who  had  a  great  idea  of  his 
rights  as  an  individual,  and  he  was  the  third  in  succes- 
sion who  had  held  the  estates  of  Melcombe  entirely  in 
his  own  hands. 

His  three  sons  were  Roger,  Edmund,  and  Stephen. 
The  eldest  son,  notwithstanding  the  power  of  disin- 
heritance which  was  in  his  father's  hands,  had  been 


THE  FAMILY  AT  MELCOMBE.  3 

brought  up  as  eldest  sons  usually  are,  without  any 
alarm  as  to  his  future,  or  idea  that  under  any  possi- 
bility he  could  be  displaced  from  his  natural  position. 
He  had  been  in  the  Guards  in  his  youth,  and  had 
passed  that  blossoming  portion  of  his  existence  with- 
out any  discredit,  if  also  without  any  special  use.  He 
had  withdrawn,  however,  from  a  life  somewhat  too 
expensive  for  his  allowance  and  circumstances  some 
years  before  the  beginning  of  this  history,  and,  with 
occasional  absences  for  pleasure  or  adventure,  lived  at 
home,  managing  as  much  of  the  business  of  the  estate 
as  his  father  permitted  to  pass  out  of  his  own  hands, 
looking  after  the  stables,  hunting  a  little,  and  finding 
enough  to  occupy  him  in  that  busy  idleness  of  country 
life  which  is  so  seductive  and  looks  so  much  like  im- 
portant work  when  the  doer  of  it  has  nothing  else  to 
do.  Roger  was  not,  however,  ignorant  of  what  men 
have  to  do  in  regions  where  existence  is  less  easy.  He 
had  been,  as  people  say,  a  great  deal  about  the  world. 
He  had  taken  that  round  which  to  young  men  of  the 
present  day  stands  in  the  place  of  the  grand  tour 
which  their  forefathers  took  with  more  or  less  advan- 
tage in  the  way  of  culture  and  art.  He  had  been  all 
over  America,  he  was  still  part  owner  of  a  Califor- 
nian  ranche,  he  had  touched  at  Japan,  and  he  knew 
familiarly  many  a  place  which,  a  generation  ago,  only 
sailors  by  profession  or  merchants'  clerks  knew  any- 
thing about.  How  much  good  all  these  varied  experi- 
ences had  done  him  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  but  they 
had  at  least  contributed  with  many  other  influences  to 
form  the  man. 

Edmund,  the  second  son,  was  of  a  very  different 
mould.  He -was  one  of  those  who  are  untraveled,  and 
have  not  knocked  about  or  roughed  it,  as  it  is  the 


4  THE  SECOND  SON. 

fashion  to  do ;  that  is  to  say,  he  knew  Europe  and  the 
great  countries  which  have  marched  with  his  own 
through  the  comparatively  modern  levels  of  history, 
and  he  knew  books  and  rather  more  art  than  was  good 
for  him.  He  had  a  mild  little  fortune  of  his  own,  de- 
rived from  his  mother  ;  the  just  enough  which  is  sup- 
posed to  be  very  bad  for  a  young  man  by  inducing  him 
to  believe  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  do  anything  for 
himself,  but  which  the  present  writer  takes  the  liberty 
of  believing  is  sometimes  very  good  for  a  young  man, 
keeping  him  out  of  the  ranks  of  the  struggling  with- 
out that  sense  of  guilt  and  helplessness  which  must 
always  characterize  the  ineffectiveness  of  the  poor. 
Edmund  cared  little  for  game,  great  or  small ;  he  was 
not  interested  in  savage  life,  whether  that  of  the 
hunter,  or  the  cattle  owner,  or  the  aboriginal,  though 
more  in  the  last  than  in  the  first.  He  was  a  man 
somewhat  without  motive  in  the  world,  reading  a  great 
deal,  wandering  more  or  less,  writing  a  little,  musing 
much.  His  musings  did  not  come  to  anything  to 
speak  of ;  indeed,  there  was  supposed  to  be  little  use 
in  him  of  any  kind.  He  could  not  even  lay  claim  to 
that  high  .reputation  in  the  way  of  bricabrac  which, 
for  a  dilettante  such  as  he  allowed  himself  to  be,  is 
a  kind  of  salvation.  Whether  it  was  indolence,  or 
whether  it  was  that  he  had  no  conviction  of  the  im- 
portance of  Japanese  fans  and  China  plates  in  decora- 
tion, he  had  not  made  much  even  of  the  rooms  which 
had  been  given  up  to  him  at  home.  They  were  hung 
only  with  pictures  and  water-color  sketches,  some  of 
which  were  done  by  his  own  hand,  without  a  fan 
among  them,  or  any  other  barbaric  "  bit  of  color."  He 
did  not  come  up  to  his  possibilities  even  in  that  re- 
spect. His  presence  or  absence  did  not  tell  very  much 


THE  FAMILY  AT  MELCOMBE.  5 

upon  the  house.  It  is  true  that  most  of  the  inhabi- 
tants at  Melcombe  were  glad  to  have  him  there ;  but 
those  very  qualities  which  made  everybody  pleased  to 
see  him  diminished  the  importance  of  his  going  away. 
He  gave  so  little  trouble  that  no  one  missed  him, 
though  when  he  was  at  home  the  fact  that  he  gave 
little  trouble  was  his  highest  praise. 

Stephen  was  the  one  who  turned  the  house  upside 
down,  when  he  appeared.  He  was  a  soldier,  with  his 
regiment,  spending  only  his  intervals  of  leave  (and 
not  always  those)  at  Melcombe.  But  no  one  could  be 
under  any  doubt  on  the  subject  when  Stephen  was  at 
home.  He  had  everything  altered  to  suit  his  pleasure ; 
even  Mr.  Mitford,  who  never  departed  from  his  rules, 
was  unconsciously  thrust  out  of  them  on  Stephen's  re- 
turn, and  thought  nothing  of  it.  This  not  because 
he  was  the  favorite.  He  could  not  be  said  to  be  the 
favorite.  He  was  too  noisy,  too  imperious,  for  that 
part.  He  had  not  the  sweetness,  the  persuasiveness, 
which  procures  one  of  a  family  his  own  way.  He  got 
the  upper  hand  because  he  insisted  upon  it.  None  of 
the  others  felt  themselves  able  to  oppose  Stephen.  As 
for  Edmund,  he  shrunk  at  once  from  any  controversy, 
feeling  that  he  must  go  to  the  wall ;  and  Roger  would 
give  in  with  a  growl,  saying  in  his  mustache  that  the 
fellow  was  not  here  for  long,  or  else  —  Mr.  Mitford 
yielded  with  a  still  worse  grace,  but  he  did  yield  also, 
—  chiefly  because  he  felt  it  undignified  to  engage  in 
any  strife  unless  he  was  certain  to  be  victorious,  and 
that  could  never  be  certain  when  it  was  Stephen  who 
was  the  antagonist.  Stephen  did  not  mind  in  the  least 
what  weapons  he  used.  He  would  speak  of  his  father's 
age  in  a  way  which  made  Mr.  Mitford  furious.  "  I 
don't  want  to  disturb  you,  sir,  at  your  time  of  life. 


6  THE   SECOND  SON. 

One  knows,  of  course,  that  habit  is  more  than  second 
nature  with  old  people."  "  Who  the  deuce  do  you 
mean  by  your  old  people  ?  "  Mr.  Mitford  would  shout 
in  a  passion,  conscious  of  being  only  sixty- seven,  and 
well  out  of  sight  yet  of  the  threescore  and  ten  years. 
The  servants  invariably  flew  to  execute  Mr.  Stephen's 
orders.  Anything  for  a  quiet  life,  they  said.  And 
thus  it  was  that  without  going  out  of  his  course  to 
conciliate  anybody,  or  troubling  himself  about  making 
it  up  to  them,  Stephen  got  most  things  his  own  way. 
He  was,  perhaps,  the  handsomest  of  his  family,  as 
features  and  merely  physical  attributes  go.  He  was 
taller  than  his  brothers,  he  was  better  at  all  out-door 
pursuits ;  or  perhaps  it  was  because  he  always  said  he 
,  the  best  that  everybody  thought  so.  Then  he  had 
reputation  of  being  open-handed  and  liberal,  be- 
cause people  who  are  so  noisy  and  impulsive  generally 
are  as  careless  of  money  as  they  are  of  other  people's 
comfort  —  or  at  least  it  is  usual  to  think  so.  Stephen 
is  so  thoughtless,  everybody  said ;  you  don't  expect 
Stephen  to  remember  little  precautions,  or  to  curry 
favor :  but  at  bottom  he 's  the  most  good-natured  fel- 
low !  He  does  n't  pretend  to  be  clever,  but  he  sticks 
to  his  friends  like  a  good  one,  the  gentlemen  said. 
He's  a  little  rough,  but  then  he's  so  very  good-na- 
tured, said  the  ladies.  So  Stephen  went  on  steadily 
thinking  of  nothing  but  how  to  please  himself.  There 
is  no  branch  of  human  industry  in  which  perseverance 
is  more  sure  of  its  reward. 

There  were  daughters  in  the  Mitford  family,  but 
they  had  never  been  taken  much  into  account.  The 
mother  had  died  young,  and  no  feminine  head  of  the 
house  had  ever  succeeded  her.  There  was  an  excel- 
lent housekeeper,  Mrs.  Simmons,  who  devoted  herself 


THE  FAMILY  AT  MELCOMBE.  1 

to  the  boys,  but  thought  young  ladies  were  best  in  the 
school-room,  and  kept  the  governesses  at  a  haughty 
distance.  The  young  ladies  were  timid  girls,  who 
were  frightened  of  their  brothers,  and  thought  Mrs. 
Simmons  quite  right.  Somehow  or  other,  nobody 
quite  knew  how,  two  of  them  married  out  of  that 
school-room,  and  escaped  into  what  we  must  hope  was 
a  better  life.  One  little  girl  was  still  left  at  home. 
Her  name  was  Katherine,  but  she  had  not  the  vigor 
which  that  name  implies.  To  have  called  her  Kate 
would  have  been  impossible,  or  even  Katie.  The  uni- 
versal sense  of  those  who  knew  her  averted  this  false 
nomenclature  by  calling  her  Nina,  supposed  to  be  a 
contraction  of  the  last  syllable  of  her  name,  as  it  is  of 
so  many  names.  She  was  nearly  eighteen  at  the  period 
to  which  I  am  referring ;  a  pretty  enough  little  girl, 
looking  much  younger  than  her  age,  and  with  a  con- 
stantly apologetic  tone  about  her,  as  if  she  had  no 
business  to  be  in  the  way,  or  show  herself  in  superior 
male  society,  —  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  did  very 
little.  The  last  governess  had  departed  some  time 
before  :  governesses  had  not  been  welcome  in  the  Mit- 
f ord  family,  nor  had  they  been  happy ;  and  in  what 
way  Nina  had  been  educated,  or  her  sisters  before  her, 
nobody  knew.  It  was  supposed  that  they  could  read 
and  write,  and  it  was  known  (by  the  nuisance  it  was) 
that  they  could  play  badly  upon  a  well-thumped  school- 
room piano,  out  of  which  more  noise  than  music  was 
got.  After  the  governess  departed,  Nina  was  more 
often  visible  than  she  had  been  before.  The  humblest 
of  little  apologetic  girls  cannot  live  in  a  school-room 
all  alone.  If  there  had  been  no  other  reason  against 
it,  there  was  this  reason,  that  it  was  now  nobody's 
business  to  carry  up  tea  to  that  secluded  place.  The 


8  THE   SECOND   SOX. 

school-room  maid  had  gone  along  with  the  governess, 
and  when  this  dilemma  was  reported  to  Mrs.  Simmons 
her  deliverance  was  very  decisive.  '*  It  is  high  time 
Miss  Nina  came  down  to  dinner,"  she  said,  although 
on  a  former  occasion  she  had  protested  that  the 
school-room  was  the  proper  place  for  young  ladies. 
This  proves  that  even  the  housekeeper  was  not  always 
consistent;  but  then,  in  the  present  case,  tea  in  the 
school-room  instead  of  dinner  down-stairs  had  the  air 
of  being  a  privilege  for  Nina,  a  thing  that  evidently 
could  not  be.  AVhen  it  was  thus  settled  that  she 
should  make  her  appearance  at  dinner,  Nina  learned 
to  show  herself  much  more  down-stairs  during  the  day. 
She  was  all  alone,  poor  little  thing ;  there  was  nobody 
to  talk  with  up-stairs,  or  with  whom  to  exchange  those 
innocent  little  secrets  which  belong  to  girlhood.  She 
was  very  heart-sick  with  longing  for  her  sisters,  and 
for  Miss  Beaumont,  who  had  been  kind,  and  even  for 
Mattie,  the  little  school-room  maid.  Had  she  been 
left,  the  deserted  girl  would  in  all  likelihood  have 
formed  a  very  unsuitable  but  devoted  friendship  with 
Mattie;  or  she  might  have  fallen  in  love  with  the 
gardener,  or  done  something  of  a  desperate  kind. 
Mrs.  Simmons  saved  her  by  issuing  that  recommenda- 
tion, which  was  as  good  as  an  order.  Nina  did  not 
like  it  at  first,  but  afterwards  she  got  to  like  it.  She 
was  a  pretty  little  creature.  She  was  very  anxious  to 
please.  And  when  any  one  walked  into  the  drawing- 
room,  which  had  hitherto  been  empty,  save  on  great 
occasions,  and  became  aware  of  a  little  startled  move- 
ment, and  the  raising  of  a  pair  of  half-frightened  eyes, 
and  the  flutter  of  a  frock  which  seemed  ready  to  flutter 
out  of  sight  on  the  faintest  indication  that  it  was  in 
the  way,  the  spectacle  soon  came  to  be  quite  an  agree- 
able thing. 


THE  FAMILY  AT  MELCOMBE. 

The  sitting-rooms  of  the  house  were  en  suite.  There 
was  first  a  library  occupying  the  corner,  with  windows 
on  two  sides,  then  a  large  drawing-room,  then  a  small 
one,  and  at  the  other  corner  the  dining-room.  The 
whole  line  of  rooms  was  lighted  at  night.  The  draw- 
ing-rooms served  only  the  purpose  of  a  passage  from 
the  library  at  one  end  to  the  banquet  at  the  other. 
But  the  flutter  of  Nina's  frock  changed  this  arrange- 
ment, and  made  the  silent  passage  room  into  a  little 
centre  of  domestic  life,  more  pleasant  than  the  heavy 
library,  which  was  lined  with  books  and  hung  with 
heavy  curtains,  as  became  the  abode  of  knowledge  and 
masculine  mental  occupation.  It  may  be  doubted, 
perhaps,  whether  Mr.  Mitford  ever  discussed  a  ques- 
tion more  profound  than  how  to  gain  a  little  upon  his 
new  leases,  or  keep  back  a  little  from  the  new  build- 
ings and  repairs  which  his  farmers  demanded.  But 
these  are  questions  very  serious  in  their  way,  and  the 
library  was  grave  enough  in  appearance  to  be  tenanted 
by  a  bishop.  The  young  men  and  their  father,  not 
always  on  the  best  of  terms  with  each  other,  formed  a 
sufficiently  gloomy  procession  when  they  came  from 
under  the  shade  of  the  dark  velvet  portiere,  marching 
along  to  dinner,  four  tall  men,  and  not  a  smiling  face. 
When  first  Nina's  white  frock  had  been  seen  to  rise 
timidly  from  one  of  the  sofas  it  made  a  sensation  in 
the  group.  "  What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  hour?" 
Mr.  Mifcford  said  to  his  daughter,  somewhat  gruffly. 
"•  Please,  papa,  Miss  Beaumont  has  gone,"  said  Nina, 
trembling  a  little.  "  To  be  sure,"  he  said,  mollified 
by  her  wistful  look,  and  offered  his  daughter  his  arm. 
How  Nina  had  trembled  as  she  took  that  formidable 
arm  !  She  was  ready  to  sink  into  the  earth  one  min- 
ute, and  the  next  could  not  help  saying  to  herself, 


10  THE   SECOND  SOX. 

" Oh,  that  Mrs. Simmons  could  see  me!"  For  though 
it  was  the  housekeeper  who  had  been  the  cause  of  this 
bold  step,  she  had  not  intended  it  to  be  to  Nina's  ad- 
vantage ;  nor  had  it  ever  occurred  to  her  that  her 
master,  who  was  so  little  careful  of  the  girls,  should, 
on  seeing  this  little  one,  with  her  downcast  eyes,  trem- 
bling before  him,  have  remembered  that  little  Nina  was 
a  lady,  and  offered  her  his  majestic  arm. 

By  and  by,  dating  from  this  time,  a  change  came 
about  in  the  domestic  arrangements  at  Melcombe. 
Edmund  was  the  first  who  forsook  the  gloomy  assem- 
bly in  the  library,  and  went  to  Nina  in  the  drawing- 
room  when  the  gong  sounded  for  dinner  ;  and  at  last 
it  came  to  this,  that  Mr.  Mitford  issued  alone  out  of 
the  library  door,  and  found  his  three  sons,  in  their 
black  coats,  all  gathered  round  Nina,  as  if  she  some- 
how, who  was  nobody,  only  the  youngest  and  a  girl, 
had  become  a  sort  of  head  in  the  house.  She  did  not, 
however,  rise  to  the  occasion.  Nor  did  Roger,  to 
whom  his  father  left  it  to  give  the  little  lady  his  arm, 
give  over  to  her  the  head  of  the  table,  which  had  been 
his  place  since  she  was  a  baby.  She  sat  at  her  broth- 
er's right  hand,  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  guest.  It 
would  have  appeared  absurd  to  all  of  them  to  put  this 
little  thing,  though  they  all  liked  her  well  enough,  in 
the  place  of  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Such  were  the  Mitfords  and  their  house  and  family 
at  the  time  when  this  episode  of  their  story  begins. 


II. 

THEIR  NEIGHBORS. 

NEIGHBORS,  as  everybody  knows,  are  vastly  more 
important  in  the  country  than  they  can  be  in  town. 
The  Mitfords  were  not  people  who  kept  much  com- 
pany;  indeed,  the  female  element  being  so  entirely 
suppressed  as  it  was,  they  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have 
kept  any  company  at  all.  They  had  parties  of  men 
in  the  house  in  September,  and  sometimes  at  other 
periods,  when  an  election  or  some  great  public  event 
occurred  in  the  country ;  or  in  the  race  week  at  Beau- 
lieu,  when  everybody  is  expected,  more  or  less,  to  en- 
tertain. It  might  perhaps  have  been  on  these  occa- 
sions that  the  elder  girls  met  their  respective  hus- 
bands ;  but  the  matches  were  all  made  in  neighboring 
houses,  never  at  home.  And  speaking  of  society, 
there  was  none  at  Melcombe,  for  who  would  call  a 
shooting  party,  or  a  collection  of  men  gathered  to- 
gether for  any  one  distinct  male  object,  society?  But 
the  neighborhood  was,  as  everybody  said,  distinctly 
sociable  and  friendly.  The  nearest  house,  of  course, 
was  the  Rectory,  and  the  nearest  neighbors  were  cler- 
ical. How  it  is  that  the  English  gentry  should  for 
so  many  centuries  have  suffered  the  existence  at  their 
very  door  of  households  fraught  with  peril  to  their 
younger  members  is  a  question  which  has  not  passed 
without  previous  discussion,  that  we  should  introduce 
it  head  and  shoulders  here  without  warning.  It  is 


12  THE  SECOND  SON. 

one  of  the  highest  proofs  of  the  sincerity  of  religious 
principle  and  faith  in  the  national  church  which  a 
body  of  excellent  but  perhaps  not  remarkably  spir- 
itual-minded persons  could  give.  The  Rectory  is  al- 
most always  at  the  Squire's  park  gates  ;  it  is  nearer 
than  any  other  house.  In,  say,  six  cases  out  of  ten, 
it  is  full  of  sons  and  daughters  about  the  same  ages 
as  the  Squire's  sons  and  daughters ;  young  people 
evidently  quite  as  good  in  every  way,  but  probably 
not  at  all  rich,  or  likely  to  increase  by  connection  or 
otherwise  the  greatness  of  his  house.  The  sons,  young 
fellows  getting  afloat  in  the  professions,  or  scuffling 
through  the  long  vacation  as  best  they  can  between 
the  Hall,  which  is  the  chief  house  in  the  parish,  and 
the  clerical  house,  which  is  the  second,  —  what  a  dan- 
ger for  the  Squire's  daughters,  probably  just  at  the 
impressionable  age,  and  not  yet  competent  to  judge 
of  the  advantages  of  a  good  match !  And  the  girls, 
still  more  dangerous,  innocent  man-traps  laid  in  the 
very  sight  of  an  indignant  father  !  Sometimes  the 
familiarity  in  which  the  two  sets  of  young  people 
have  grown  up,  calling  each  other  by  their  Christian 
names,  and  assuming  almost  brotherly  and  sisterly  re- 
lationships, is  a  safeguard  ;  but  not  always  —  for  this 
sort  of  fraternal  relation  often  expands  into  something 
nearer  and  dearer. 

The  Mitfords  were  exceptionally  fortunate,  how- 
ever, in  their  clerical  family.  The  Rector  of  Mel- 
combe  had  but  two  children :  the  daughter  (provi- 
dentially) older  than  any  of  the  Mitford  boys;  the 
son  younger  even  than  Nina,  which  was  more  than 
could  have  been  hoped  for.  The  Rector  was  of  a 
Jersey  family,  and  his  name  was  spelt  Le  Mesurier, 
as  no  doubt  it  ought  to  have  been  pronounced ;  but 


THEIR  NEIGHBORS.  13 

as  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  called  Lemeasurer,  as  if  it 
were  one  word,  and  he  never  objected  to  the  mispro- 
nunciation. Miss  Lemesurier  was  the  housekeeper, 
nay,  the  head  of  the  house,  at  the  Rectory.  Her 
mother  had  died  long  before.  Miss  Lemesurier  was 
approaching  forty,  and  she  was  by  far  the  best  curate 
her  father  had  ever  had.  Not  only  did  all  the  exter- 
nal affairs  of  the  parish  pass  through  her  hands,  but 
most  of  the  spiritual  too.  She  was  a  large  woman, 
larger  than  her  father,  and  overshadowing  him  both 
mentally  and  bodily.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  fair 
hair,  somewhat  sandy,  but  which  in  its  day  had  been 
celebrated  as  gold,  and  this  was  her  chief  external 
distinction.  She  wore  it  in  an  old-fashioned  way,  in 
large  massive  braids,  so  that  it  could  never  be  ignored, 
and  was  a  conspicuous  part  of  her  somewhat  imposing 
personality.  Her  name,  it  was  believed,  was  Patience, 
but  she  had  never  been  known  as  anything  but  Pax, 
though  the  origin  of  that  cognomen  was  lost  in  the 
mists  of  antiquity.  The  Rectory,  withdrawn  among 
its  trees,  had  a  dignified  and  impressive  appearance, 
with  the  spire  of  Melcombe  old  church  rising  be- 
yond it  into  peaceful  blue  skies  flecked  with  English 
cloud,  and  scarcely  stained  by  the  village  smoke.  But 
through  an  opening  in  these  trees,  Pax  Lemesurier, 
from  where  she  sat  at  her  favorite  window,  command- 
ed the  gate  of  the  great  house,  and  saw  everybody 
who  went  and  came.  Nature  had  at  first  afforded 
this  facility,  but  it  was  kept  up  by  art.  She  had  the 
opening  carefully  preserved  and  trimmed,  so  that  no 
intrusive  bough  should  ever  shut  that  prospect  out. 

This  was  the  nearest  female  neighbor  our  Squire's 
family  had.  Naturally,  as  she  was  several  years  older 
than  the  Mitfords,  two  of  them  in  succession  had 


14  THE   SECOND   SON. 

fallen  in  love  with  Pax.  It  had  been  a  short  affair 
with  Roger,  who  had  learned  better  after  his  first 
period  of  service  with  his  regiment.  But  Edmund 
had  held  by  it  a  long  time,  and  would  have  brought  it 
to  the  crisis  of  marriage  if  Pax  would  have  listened  to 
him  ;  but  she  was  not  that  kind  of  woman.  Marry- 
ing, she  declared  at  once,  was  not  in  her  way.  She 
had  a  house  of  her  own,  as  much  as  any  married 
woman  had,  and  a  great  deal  more  independence,  and 
to  change  this  free  and  full  life  for  that  of  a  younger 
son's  wife,  watching  her  husband's  countenance  to 
keep  him  in  good  humor,  and  conciliating  his  father 
that  he  might  increase  their  allowance,  was  a  sort  of 
thing  to  which  nothing  would  make  her  submit,  — 
"  nothing,  at  least,  with  which  I  am  at  present  ac- 
quainted," Pax  said.  "  Of  course  such  a  thing  might 
happen  as  that  I  should  fall  in  love."  She  said  this 
with  such  gravity  that  everybody  laughed,  putting 
aside,  as  it  were,  a  margin  for  future  possibilities. 
At  the  moment,  Edmund  was  very  angry  and  of- 
fended by  this  speech,  which  showed  how  entirely  that 
specific  was  out  of  the. question  in  his  own  case ;  but 
in  the  end  he  learned  to  laugh,  too. 

Another  notable  member  of  the  neighboring  so- 
ciety may  best  be  introduced  to  the  reader  as  she  ap- 
peared in  Pax's  drawing-room,  one  spring  morning, 
having  ridden  over  to  see  her  friend  from  her  own 
house,  which  was  quite  near  as  country  calculations 
go,  being  about  five  miles  off.  This  young  lady  was 
a  person  of  great  importance  in  the  circle  round  Mel- 
combe.  She  was  an  heiress,  not  only  of  money,  but 
of  a  delightful  and  highly  prosperous  estate ;  and 
though  her  name  was  not  of  much  account,  and  her 
connection  with  the  district  recent,  no  one  could  have 


THEIR   NEIGHBORS.  15 

a  finer  position  than  Elizabeth  Travers,  to  whom  all 
the  greatest  families  in  the  neighborhood,  possessing 
sons,  showed  the  utmost  attention.  She  was  not  in 
her  teens,  like  the  usual  heroines  of  romance,  but  in 
her  twenties,  which  is  very  different,  and  had  seen  a 
good  deal  of  the  world.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
pretend  that  she  was  unaware  of  the  position  she 
held,  and  the  great  advantages,  as  people  say,  which 
she  possessed.  As  these  advantages  were  evidently 
not  hers,  but  those  of  her  wealth,  she  was  not  proud 
of  them,  but  occasionally,  indeed,  a  little  bitter,  like 
a  woman  who  felt  herself  wronged,  although  she  got 
nothing  but  compliments  and  worship.  Her  position 
was  so  far  peculiar  that  she  had  inherited  all  this  from 
an  uncle,  recently  dead,  who  out  of  some  abstract  im- 
pression of  justice,  believing  that  Elizabeth's  father 
had  laid  the  foundations  of  the  fortune  which  he  did 
not  live  to  enjoy,  had  left  everything  to  his  niece, 
with  but  a  slender  provision  for  the  insipid,  delicate 
invalid  wife  whom  he  left  behind.  Mrs.  Travers  had 
been  kept  in  ignorance  of  this  arrangement,  which 
had  taken  even  her  own  house  from  her.  It  was  the 
one  thing  upon  which  Elizabeth  insisted.  The  poor 
lady  was  told  that  Elizabeth  was  the  final  heir,  and 
that  it  was  not  in  her  power  to  leave  anything  away 
from  her  husband's  niece,  who  had  always  lived  with 
her,  and  of  whom  in  reality  she  was  both  fond  and 
proud.  Mrs.  Travers,  all  unsuspicious  of  the  truth, 
had  shed  a  few  tears  over  even  this  disability.  "  If 
there  had  been  only  ten  thousand,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
"  which  I  could  have  called  my  own !  Of  course  I 
should  have  left  the  most  of  it  to  you.  He  need  not, 
I  'm  sure,  have  ever  supposed  that  I  would  leave  it 
away  from  you  ;  but  to  think  I  could  do  what  I  liked 


16  THE   SECOND  SON. 

with  it,  and  leave  a  few  legacies  when  I  passed  away, 
would  have  been  a  pleasure.  I  don't  know  why  your 
uncle  should  have  had  so  little  faith  in  me,  my  dear." 

"  It  was  not  that  he  had  little  faith  in  you,  dear 
aunt.  Besides,  you  have  more  than  ten  thousand 
pounds,  I  am  sure.  And  whatever  legacies  you  wish 
to  leave,  you  may  be  certain  that  they  will  be  paid," 
said  Elizabeth. 

But  Mrs.  Travers  shook  her  head,  declaring  that 
what  she  wished  was  not  any  such  assurance,  but  only 
that,  to  show  his  trust  in  her,  he  had  left  her  something 
which  she  could  have  considered  as  her  very  own. 
This  was  quite  as  great  a  grievance  to  the  poor  lady 
as  if  she  had  known  the  real  state  of  the  case,  which 
Elizabeth,  with  so  much  trouble,  and  even  at  the  cost 
of  a  fib  or  two  (but  it  was  the  lawyers  who  told  them, 
and  that  did  not  matter),  so  carefully  concealed  from 
her.  Thus  they  lived  together ;  Mrs.  Travers  order- 
ing everything  as  if  it  were  her  own,  and  believing  it 
so  to  be,  with  Elizabeth,  her  dependent,  in  the  house. 
She  treated  her  niece  as  if  she  had  been  her  daugh- 
ter, it  must  be  allowed,  but  now  and  then  would  ex- 
hibit little  caprices  of  proprietorship,  and  debar  her 
from  the  use  of  a  horse  or  a  carriage.  "  It  may  be 
yours  to  do  what  you  like  with  after  I  die,  but  it 's 
mine  as  long  as  I  live,"  she  would  say  pettishly,  not- 
withstanding that  the  house  and  everything  in  it, 
the  carriages  and  horses,  were  Elizabeth's,  and  not 
hers  at  all.  This  assertion  of  rights  had  been  of 
little  importance  while  the  two  ladies  led  a  secluded 
life  of  mourning,  after  the  death  of  the  head  of  the 
house ;  but  that  period  was  about  ending,  and  Eliza- 
beth's embarrassments  and  difficulties  were  likely  to 
increase.  It  was  upon  this  subject,  with  perhaps  some 


THEIR  NEIGHBORS.  17 

others  underneath,  that  she  had  now  come  to  un- 
burden her  heart. 

Miss  Lemesurier  sat  in  her  usual  chair  near  the 
window,  which  commanded  the  Melcombe  park  gates. 
She  was  in  a  light  gown,  as  was  also  her  wont,  though 
it  was  not  becoming.  Her  flood  of  light  hair,  in  two 
great  heavy  braids,  framed  her  face,  and  was  twisted 
in  a  great  knot  behind.  Her  complexion,  which  had 
grown  a  little  dull,  was  not  capable  of  overcoming 
the  mingled  effects  of  the  light  hair  and  dress,  and 
her  eyes,  though  they  were  large  and  animated,  were 
gray,  too,  of  a  yellowish  tone,  concentrating  rather 
than  giving  forth  light.  She  lent  her  full  attention 
to  Elizabeth,  and  yet  she  kept  her  eyes  on  the  park 
gates  of  Melcombe,  and  not  a  beggar  or  tramp  could 
pass  out  or  in  without  being  seen  by  Pax. 

"  It  is  vexing,  that 's  all,"  said  Elizabeth,  drying  her 
brown  eyes,  which  in  their  wet  condition  sent  sparks 
of  light  all  round  her,  and  illuminated  the  scene. 
"It  isn't  as  if  I  wished  poor  auntie  to  lose  the  least 
of  the  pleasure  she  takes  in  her  things." 

"  Only  they  are  not  her  things ;  they  're  your  things." 

"Oh,  what  does  that  matter?  What  do  I  care 
whose  things  they  are?  But  she  cares,  poor  dear!  " 

"  I  'm  not  fond  of  self-deception,"  said  Pax,  folding 
her  large  hands  in  her  lap.  "  If  you  did  n't  care,  my 
dear,  you  would  never  come  and  tell  me." 

"Oh,  Pax!" 

"  I  'm  not  fond  of  deception  of  any  kind,"  con- 
tinued Miss  Lemesurier.  "  The  subject  of  it  is  al- 
ways angry  when  it  is  found  out,  and  has  a  right  to 
be  angry.  You  know  I  was  always  for  letting  Mrs. 
Travers,  poor  thing,  know ;  there  would  have  been  a 
few  more  tears,  and  then  all  would  have  been  right." 


18  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  uncle's 
will  was  very  unjust.  Fancy  his  wife,  who  had  been 
his  faithful  companion  all  these  years!  Everything 
had  been  hers,  just  as  much  hers  as  his ;  and  in  a  mo- 
ment they  all  pass  away  from  her  without  any  reason, 
and  come  to  me.  Nothing  could  be  more  unjust." 

"  That 's  a  large  statement,"  said  Pax.  "  I  don't 
know  if  it 's  unjust  or  not,  but  there  can't  be  a  doubt 
that  it 's  hard.  Widows  have  almost  always  to  bear 
it.  Perhaps  they  don't  mind.  When  it 's  their  own 
son  who  turns  them  out  of  house  and  home  everybody 
seems  to  think  it 's  all  right.  But  of  course  you  would 
never  have  turned  her  out.  You  would  have  made 
yourself  her  slave,  —  as,  indeed,  you  are  doing  now." 

"  Not  a  slave  at  all,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  Sometimes 
she  is  a  little  aggravating,  and  then  I  come  and 
grumble  to  you, — but  only  to  you,  Pax  ;  and  then  it 
all  comes  right  again." 

"  What's  wrong  can  never  be  right,"  said  Pax,  with 
a  certain  placid  dogmatism.  She  paused  a  little,  and 
then  she  said,  "  There  is  a  wonderful  sight !  —  the 
three  Mitford  boys  all  walking  together  out  of  the 
gates." 

Elizabeth  got  up  quickly  to  peep  over  her  friend's 
shoulder.  A  little  additional  color  had  come  to  her 
face.  "  The  three  Mitford  boys !  "  she  said,  with  a 
little  strained  laugh.  "  One  would  think  you  were 
talking  of  three  curled  darlings  in  velvet  frocks,  or 
knickerbockers  at  the  most." 

"  I  've  seen  them  in  both,"  said  Pax,  calmly.  "  But 
it's  very  seldom  of  late  that  I  've  seen  them  together. 
Lizzy,  when  you  make  up  your  mind,  and  poor  Mrs. 
Travers  is  no  longer  in  the  way  "  — 

"  How  could  she  ever  be  in  the  way?" 


THEIR   NEIGHBORS.  19 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  How  much  simpler  this  world 
would  be,"  said  Pax,  "  if  people  would  be  sincere  and 
speak  the  truth  !  I  think  the  whole  business  wrong, 
you  know.  Still,  having  done  it,  you  may  at  least  be 
frank  about  the  consequences,  and  not  pretend  to  me 
that  it  makes  no  difference.  Of  course  she  is  in  the 
way.  You  know  very  well  you  can  never  marry  while 
she  is  there,  thinking  herself  the  mistress  of  all.  I 
should  not  wonder  if  you  were  to  keep  it  up  to  the 
end,  and  humbly  accept  an  allowance  from  her  out  of 
your  own  money." 

"  It  would  do  —  us  no  harm  if  I  did,"  said  Eliza- 
beth, coloring  high,  and  speaking  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"Very  likely  it  would  do  you  no  harm.  To  be 
poor  in  reality  would  not  do  you  much  harm.  You  're 
a  good,  honest,  healthy  young  woman,  and  quite  capa- 
ble of  looking  after  your  family,  and  bringing  up  your 
children"  — 

"  Pax ! "  Elizabeth  stopped  her,  laughing  and  blush- 
ing. "  You  go  a  great  deal  too  fast !  "  she  cried. 

"  That 's  true.  Of  course  it  would  take  a  few 
years.  But  that 's  not  the  question,  my  dear.  You 
couldn't  be  married  like  an  ordinary  girl.  There 
would  be  all  the  fuss  in  the  world  about  settlements, 
and  everything  must  be  turned  over  among  the  law- 
yers and  talked  about,  and  your  position  made  known. 
You  could  n't  deceive  her  any  longer  ;  it  would  n't  be 
possible.  Everybody  would  know." 

"  Everybody  knows  now,  except  my  poor  auntie.  I 
don't  see  what  difference  it  need  make." 

"  And  you  think  you  could  get  a  man  to-  aid  and 
abet  you  in  all  that !  You  think  your  husband  would 
carry  on  the  farce,  and  make  believe  to  be  Mrs. 
Travers's  pensioner,  and  have  your  money  doled  out 
through  her  hands! " 


20  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  Pax,"  cried  Miss  Travers,  "  I  tell  you,  you  go  a 
great  deal  too  fast.  There  's  no  such  person ;  time 
enough  to  consider  what  he  would  do,  when  he  ex- 
ists." 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  Pax,  with  a  mixture  of  pity 
and  contempt,  "  he  exists  ;  or  at  least  I  hope  so,  for 
your  sake.  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  marry  thirty 
years  hence  some  boy  who  is  not  born  yet,  —  that 
would  be  a  dismal  look-out  indeed.  He  exists,  and 
not  far  off,  or  I  'm  mistaken.  Indeed,  I  should  not 
wonder  if  he  were  to  pass  at  any  moment  under  those 
trees." 

"  All  this  is  quite  beyond  the  question,"  said  Eliza- 
beth, with  a  look  of  pain.  It  was  not  the  fluttering, 
pretty  blush  of  happy  anticipation,  but  a  hot  color 
of  embarrassment,  of  perplexity,  almost  of  irritation, 
that  made  a  line  under  her  eyes.  Something  like  a 
flame  of  trouble  not  unmixed  with  shame  passed  over 
her  face.  "  We  have  talked  of  this  a  great  deal  too 
much,"  she  said,  "  or  at  least  I  have  let  you  talk. 
To  speculate  may  be  no  harm.  I  suppose  I  thought 
it  amusing  at  one  time,  but  it  is  not  amusing  now. 
Pax,  please,  if  you  care  for  me  at  all,  don't  say  any 
more." 

"  I  care  for  you  a  great  deal,  my  dear,  and  for  him 
also,  —  I  have  a  right  to,"  Pax  said.  Then  there  was 
silence  between  them.  For  as  a  matter  of  fact  the 
three  young  men  were  passing  under  the  trees ;  and  it 
remained  uncertain  whether  they  were  coming  to  the 
Rectory,  or  whether  any  one  of  them  was  corning  to 
the  Rectory,  or  where  this  unlikely  group  were  bound. 
To  see  them  all  three  together  was  so  unusual  that 
the  women  who  took  so  great  an  interest  in  them 
watched  and  waited  for  the  two  or  three  decisive  min- 


THEIR  NEIGHBORS.  21 

utes,  almost  holding  their  breath.  The  footsteps  be- 
came audible  after  a  minute,  and  even  a  distant  sound 
of  voices ;  and  then  these  indications  became  distant, 
and  it  was  evident  that  the  Rectory  was  not  the  end 
to  which  either  all  or  any  were  bound.  Both  the 
ladies  drew  a  long  breath  when  this  was  ascertained 
beyond  doubt,  but  it  is  uncertain  whether  it  was  in 
relief  or  disappointment.  The  color  still  flamed,  red 
and  hot,  under  Elizabeth's  eyes.  The  passing  sounds 
seemed  to  have  disturbed  and  excited  her.  She  had 
forgotten  the  original  subject  of  her  complaints  and 
trouble,  and  her  mind  went  far  away  out  of  the  Rec- 
tory drawing-room  to  other  speculations  of  her  own. 

Meanwhile,  the  three  Mitfords  passed  the  Rectory 
gate,  and  recognized  Elizabeth's  horse  which  the 
groom  was  walking  up  and  down  outside.  "  Oh  ho ! " 
cried  Stephen.  "  There 's  Lizzy  Travers's  mare. 
She's  having  a  consultation  with  old  Pax,  Roger, 
about  the  best  way  of  hooking  you." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  try  to  be  less  vulgar,  Steve." 

"Oh,  vulgar!  As  soon  as  a  fellow  speaks  the  truth 
about  a  woman,  you  call  him  vulgar.  Old  Pax  ought 
to  know  how  to  set  about  it,  if  all  tales  are  true." 

"  There  are  some  things  which  are  worse  than  vul- 
gar," said  Edmund,  "  and  that  is  one  of  them.  Keep 
your  mess-room  talk  for  that  fine  locality.  You  will 
soon  be  there." 

"  I  hope  so,"  cried  Stephen,  —  "  free  from  the  lack- 
adaisical, which  is  worse  than  vulgar  any  day.  Look 
here,  you  fellows,  I  wish  you  would  make  up  your 
minds  who  is  going  in  for  Liz,  —  a  fine  girl  and  a  fine 
fortune,  and  capital  preserves,  though  they're  over- 
stocked. If  it 's  not  good  enough  for  you,  it 's  quite 
good  enough  for  me,  and  I  should  n't  mind  settling 


22  THE   SECOND  SON. 

down.  Not  at  home,  though.  The  Governor  is  too 
much  for  any  fellow.  I  can't  think  how  you  stand  it, 
you  two." 

To  this  speech  there  was  no  reply,  and  presently  all 
three  paused  to  greet  a  couple  of  men,  quite  unlike 
themselves,  who  were  crossing  the  common,  coming 
from  the  little  railway  station  to  which  the  Mitfords 
were  bound.  One  of  these  was  a  very  trim  and  fresh 
country  gentleman  of  fifty  or  so,  with  a  gray  mustache 
and  that  indescribably  clean,  well -brushed  air,  the 
perfection  of  physical  purity  and  soundness  which  we 
in  England  are  apt  to  consider  characteristic  of  an 
Englishman,  —  a  man  who  was  not  above  a  cigar,  but 
never  smelt  of  smoke ;  who  was  no  ascetic,  yet  showed 
no  symptom  of  any  indulgence ;  who  looked  his  years, 
yet  bore  them  like  a  flower,  and  was  as  active  as  any 
of  the  younger  men  beside  him.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  handsome,  slim  young  fellow  by  his  side 
for  anything  but  his  son.  But  though  he  was  tall  and 
straight  and  delightful  in  the  first  bloom  of  his  youth, 
Raymond  Tredgold  was  not  such  a  perfect  type  as 
his  father.  The  man  was  as  self-possessed  and  easy 
in  speech  and  mind  as  in  appearance ;  the  youth  was 
a  little  shy,  a  little  eager,  half  a  step  in  advance,  but 
not  half  so  sure  where  he  was  going  or  what  he  meant 
to  do. 

"  Hallo,  what 's  up?"  Raymond  cried,  which  indeed 
was  but  a  version  less  refined  of  the  sentiments  of  the 
ladies  at  the  Rectory  window  as  to  the  errand  of  the 
brothers,  all  walking  together,  as  if  they  had  some- 
thing (for  once)  in  common  to  do. 

"You're  going  to  see  Stephen  off?"  said  Mr.  Tred- 
gold, solving  this  problem  summarily.  "  I  'm  sorry 
you  are  going,  Steve.  My  girls  think  it  will  soon  be 


THEIR   NEIGHBORS.  23 

weather  for  tennis,  and  I  don't  know  what  else — and 
every  man  that  goes  is  a  loss,  they  say." 

"  If  it 's  only  in  the  light  of  any  man  that  goes  —  I 
hope  they  think  a  little  more  of  me  than  that.  Tell 
them  I  '11  see  them  in  town,  where  perhaps  they  won't 
take  any  notice  of  me." 

"  Or  you  of  them.  We  know  what  you  think  of 
country  folks  in  town,"  said  Mr.  Tredgold,  with  a 
laugh  that  was  not  without  meaning.  Then  he  added, 
"  We  are  going  to  see  if  the  Rector  can  do  anything 
for  Ray  in  the  matter  of  this  exam." 

Ray  gave  a  little  shrug  to  his  shoulders  when  he 
thus  became  the  subject  of  the  conversation.  He  was 
two  and  twenty,  and  it  was  recognized  as  fully  neces- 
sary that  he  should  lose  no  time. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  Rector  has  rather  forgotten  his 
classics,"  said  Edmund. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  To  send  him  to  a  crammer  is 
too  expensive  ;  besides,  I  don't  approve  of  the  system. 
I  wish  I  knew  of  any  one  else.  But  the  Rector,  even 
if  he  has  forgotten  something,  must  still  know  a  great 
deal  more  than  Ray." 

"  Ray,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  '11  teU  you  what  to  do,  a 
deal  better  than  going  in  for  exams.  A  hundred  yards 
off,  round  the  corner,  you  '11  see  a  certain  mare  walked 
about,  waiting  for  her  mistress,  and  the  mistress  is 
in  the  Rectory  drawing-room  with  old  Pax.  Go  in 
strong  for  that,  and  you  never  need  trouble  your  head 
any  more  about  exams." 

He  laughed  an  insolent  laugh,  sweeping  over  his 
brothers,  both  of  whom  were  very  grave,  a  malicious 
glance  of  defiance.  Young  Raymond  flashed  an  angry 
look  at  his  adviser ;  but  the  color  rose  in  his  young 
cheek,  and  he  made  half  a  step  forward,  like  a  dog 
pulling  at  the  leash  in  spite  of  himself. 


III. 

BROTHERS. 

"  I  WONDER,"  said  Edmund,  as  they  returned  to- 
wards the  house,  "  whether  I  may  speak  to  you  quite 
frankly,  Roger  ?  " 

"  That  means  make  yourself  disagreeable  about 
something.  Well,  fire  away.  I  don't  mind  anything, 
now  that  fellow  's  gone." 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  speak  of  him  so." 

"  Come,  that  's  a  little  too  much,  Ned.  1  mean 
Steve  no  harm :  but  you  don't  think  it  adds  to  the 
comfort  of  the  household,  do  you,  when  he 's  here  ?  " 

To  this  the  younger  brother  made  110  reply,  espe- 
cially as  at  the  moment  he  had  obej^ed  involuntarily 
an  impulse  given  by  Roger,  in  which  more  was  meant 
than  met  the  eye.  They  had  been  walking  along  the 
road  which,  with  a  sweep  round  the  village  common, 
led  to  Melcombe  from  the  railway.  Roger  had  not 
said  that  he  intended  to  take  a  less  direct  way,  but  he 
silently  turned  along  a  cross-road  traversing  the  com- 
mon in  the  opposite  direction,  and  his  brother  had 
followed  without  a  word.  Indeed,  there  could  not  be 
said  to  be  either  leading  or  following  in  the  matter, 
for  they  moved  as  by  one  impulse,  keeping  side  by 
side.  Imperceptible  as  the  influence  was,  however,  it 
was  so  marked  that  when  the  turn  was  taken,  Edmund 
looked  up  quickly  with  a  questioning  glance.  After  a 
moment  he  spoke  :  — 


BROTHERS.  25 

"  I  have  wanted  for  some  time  to  speak  to  you, 
Roger.  Don't  you  think  you  should  come  to  some  de- 
cision now,  and  think  of  doing  what  my  father  wishes 
so  much,  what  all  your  friends  desire? " 

"  Speak  plainly.     I  am  bad  at  riddles." 

"It  is  no  riddle ;  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Ed- 
mund, with  a  faint  rising  color.  "  You  should  marry ; 
you  know  that 's  the  question." 

Roger  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  they  went  on 
quickly,  their  footsteps  ringing  clear  upon  the  road,  as 
if  that  had  been  the  prevailing  sound  to  which  speech 
was  but  a  broken  accompaniment.  He  said  at  last, 
"  It 's  a  question  for  myself,  surely,  rather  than  any 
one  else.  Marry  —  whom,  I  wonder  ?  If  I  'm  directed 
in  such  a  matter,  the  direction  should  be  complete." 

Edmund  half  paused,  and  threw  out  his  arm  with 
a  quick  gesture  towards  the  point  which  they  were 
leaving  behind.  "  To  speak  of  direction  is  folly, 
Roger.  But  don't  you  know  ?  If  you  don't,  you  are 
the  only  ignorant  person." 

Again  the  steps  went  on  and  the  voices  stayed,  —  on 
quickly,  in  measured  cadence,  sure  and  steady  towards 
an  aim,  whatever  that  aim  might  be.  It  was  very 
different,  at  least,  from  the  object  of  the  other  inter- 
rupted strain,  —  the  conversation  which  was  begun 
and  broken  off  so  often,  and  by  which  only  a  portion 
of  the  intended  meaning  could  be  conveyed. 

When  Roger  broke  silence  again,  it  was  in  the 
veiled  voice  with  which  a  man  speaks  who  turns  his 
head  away,  not  to  encounter  the  scrutiny  of  his  com- 
panion's eye.  "  I  thought  it  was  the  first  tenet  of  the 
romantic  school,"  he  said,  "  that  marriage  cannot  be 
without  love.  Should  I  marry  one  woman  while  — 
should  I  insult  one  woman  by  asking  her  while  —  ? 


26  THE  SECOND  SON. 

that 's  out  of  the  question,  at  least."  With  angry  force 
he  kicked  away  a  stone  which  was  in  his  path  as  if 
that  had  been  the  thing  which  was  out  of  the  question, 
and,  hurting  his  foot  upon  it,  gave  vent  to  a  short, 
sharp  exclamation  of  pain,  all  of  which  seemed  to 
come  into  the  discussion  and  form  part  of  it,  as  they 
went  on. 

"  Marriage  is  a  very  complex  matter,"  said  the 
younger  brother ;  "  it 's  not  so  simple  as  one  thought. 
Love  is  not  the  only  necessity,  as  one  used  to  sup- 
pose." 

44  You  speak  like  an  oracle,  Ned,"  said  Roger,  seiz- 
ing the  opportunity  to  laugh  off  an  argument  which 
was  becoming  serious.  "  And  that 's  much  from  you, 
the  faithful  Edmund.  No,  I  'm  not  going  to  laugh 
about  Pax,  dear  old  Pax,  —  there  never  was  a  better 
or  a  dearer,  —  but  you  see  the  justice  of  it  now." 

44 1  see,"  said  Edmund,  adopting  his  brother's  plan, 
that  natural  expedient  of  embarrassed  feeling,  and 
turning  his  head  aside,  "  that  there  are  many  things 
which  make  it  impossible,  and  best  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble. She  saw  that  well  enough  from  the  first,  and 
always  told  me  so.  It 's  rather  a  dreary  thing  to  be 
convinced,  but  I  am  convinced,  if  that  will  do  you  any 
good." 

"  How  should  it  do  me  any  good  ?  "  said  Roger,  in 
a  quick,  startled  tone. 

44  Only  because  you  know  how  much  in  earnest  I 
was,  and  yet  I  see  it  all  well  enough  now.  There  are 
other  things  wanted.  There  's  suitability,  —  that  com- 
monplace qualification ;  there 's  all  one's  life  to  be 
taken  into  account." 

44  You  speak  like  Pax  herself,  Ned." 

44 1  dare  say,  —  it 's  all  her  at  second  hand ;  but  the 


BROTHERS.  27 

thing  is,  I  now  see  it  myself,  which  I  did  n't  and 
would  n't  in  the  old  days.  I  don't  undervalue  love. 
God  forbid.  It  's  the  foundation  of  all  things  — 
but "  — 

"  It  must  consider  suitability  first  of  all,"  said  Roger, 
with  a  forced  laugh,  "  and  reckon  up  all  the  qualifica- 
tions, so  much  money,  so  much  family,  so  much  beauty 
even,  —  oh,  I  know  that  comes  in;  and  then,  every- 
thing fully  considered,  it  may  let  itself  go  !  Yes,  I 
understand  all  that.  But,"  the  young  man  continued, 
drawing  a  long  breath,  "  that  's  not  how  it  sets  to 
work,  alas.  There  's  no  consideration  at  all  to  begin 
with,  —  no  dwelling  on  this,  or  dwelling  on  that,  none 
of  your  reasons  for  doing  a  thing.  Love,"  he  went 
on,  warming  to  his  subject,  "is  not  doing  anything. 
It  rises  in  you  when  you  are  thinking  nothing  of  it ; 
it  catches  you  unawares  ;  all  at  once  there  comes  into 
you  something  that  was  not  there  a  moment  before. 
It  's  not  your  doing,  nor  her  doing.  It  is  not  because 
she  's  lovely,  even  ;  it 's  because  of  —  nothing  that  I 
know.  It  comes,  and  there  it  is,  and  the  question  is 
—  the  question  is,  what  are  you  to  do  with  it,  what  is 
to  follow  it,  how  is  it  to  end  ?  "  He  clenched  the  hand 
that  hung  by  his  side  and  dashed  it  into  the  vacant 
air  with  a  kind  of  fury.  "  Talk  about  questions !  " 
he  cried,  with  a  strange  laugh.  "  There 's  a  question 
which  I  don't  know  how  to  solve,  for  one." 

" Is  it  as  bad  as  that? "  asked  his  brother  in  a  sub- 
dued and  troubled  tone. 

"  As  bad  as  —  what  ?  "  cried  Roger,  turning  upon 
him.  "  There  is  no  bad  in  it.  I  don't  believe  you 
know  what  I  am  talking  about.  I  am  talking  of  love, 
love  in  the  abstract,  love  with  a  capital  letter,  —  which 
you  despise,  and  think  should  give  place  to  suitability, 


28  THE  SECOND  SON. 

Ned.  Suitability  !  I  think  I  see  myself  poking  about 
looking  for  what  is  suitable  !  Yes,  when  I  want  a 
pair  of  shoes  —  No,  when  what  I  want  is  "  — 

"  The  companion  of  your  life,  Roger,  the  mistress 
of  the  house,  the  lady  of  Melcombe,  the  representative 
of  the  family  in  our  generation  —  besides  other  things 
more  important  still." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  spare  me  the  children !  "  observed 
Roger,  with  a  hard  laugh. 

Then  the  conversation  stopped,  and  the  quick,  steady 
strain  of  the  footsteps,  hurrying  in  their  excitement 
like  a  march  in  music,  resumed ;  always  going  on,  — 
going  on  like  the  composed  strain  of*  life  through  all 
that  can  happen,  quickened  now  and  then  by  the  hurry 
or  commotion  of  some  event,  but  never  brought  to  a 
stand-still.  The  young  men's  minds  were  not  open  to 
such  a  comparison,  nor,  indeed,  to  any  comparison  at 
all.  For  a  long  time  they  moved  on  in  silence,  keep- 
ing step,  with  complete  harmony  in  their  movement, 
but  in  their  thoughts  an  immeasurable  distance  apart. 
The  month  was  March ;  the  roads  were  dry  and  dusty, 
the  woods  all  covered  with  an  indescribable  softened 
tint,  and  here  and  there  shrubs  with  a  high  tone  of 
budding  green,  which  denoted  the  new  life  swelling  to 
the  tip  of  every  bough,  half  bursting  in  the  brown 
buds.  The  footsteps  of  the  brothers  rang  upon  the 
road  in  perfect  measure,  and  for  several  minutes 
neither  spoke.  At  length,  as  the  road  rounded  off 
towards  the  west,  Roger  turned  suddenly  upon  his 
companion. 

"  Are  you  going  anywhere  in  particular,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  come  this  long  round  ?  I  thought  you  had 
something  to  do  at  home." 

"Only  to  keep  you  company,"  said  Edmund.  "I 
had  not  thought  of  any  other  motive." 


BROTHERS.  29 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  merely  for  company  ?  It  is 
your  turu  to  be  questioned  now.  Did  n't  you  think  that 
perhaps,  if  you  stuck  to  my  side,  you  might  —  influ- 
ence me,  for  my  good,  as  you  fellows  are  always  bent 
on  doing ;  keep  me  from  going  where  I  have  a  mind 
to  go  ;  make  me  ashamed  possibly  of  where  I  was 
going  ?  "  Roger  spoke  hastily  and  angrily,  but  at  the 
same  time  with  embarrassment  and  a  hot  flush  upon 
his  face.  And  now  for  the  first  time  the  rhythm  of 
their  footsteps  ceased,  and  they  stood  and  looked  at 
each  other  with  much  meaning  between  them,  more 
than  was  put  into  words. 

Edmund  replied  in  a  somewhat  startled  tone  :  "  No, 
I  don't  think  I  intended  all  that.  I  came  with  you 
without  any  particular  intention,  out  of  mere  habit, 
idleness.  If  you  think  I  meant  to  spy  upon  you  "  — 

"  No,  no."  cried  the  'other,  "  nothing  of  the  sort. 
If  you  meant  anything,  Ned,  I  know  it  was  for  my 
good ;  but  don't  you  know,  you  fellows  who  are  so 
fond  of  influence,  that  the  man  who  is  to  be  influ- 
enced never  likes  it  when  he  finds  it  out  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  such  thought,"  said  Edmund,  seriously. 
"  I  did  n't  even  know  —  but  since  you  think  so,  Ro- 
ger —  It 's  true  I  have  no  particular  object  in  com- 
ing this  way ;  on  the  contrary,  the  opposite  direction 
—  might  suit  me  best." 

"  I  think  so,  Ned,  if  you  will  not  be  offended." 

"  Why  should  I  be  offended  ?  "  said  Edmund,  but 
he  had  the  dubious,  startled  look  of  a  man  suddenly 
pulled  up  and  arrested  in  his  course,  whatever  that 
might  be.  "  It  is  true  I  have  something  to  do,"  he 
said,  waving  his  hand  to  his  brother  as  he  abruptly 
turned  back.  He  was  not  offended,  but  he  was 
abashed  and  startled  by  this  sudden  dismissal.  No, 


30  THE  SECOND   SON. 

there  was  no  cause  of  offense.  A  brother  may  say 
to  a  brother  what  it  would  not  be  civil  to  say  to  a 
stranger ;  he  may  give  that  natural  ally  to  understand 
that  he  wants  to  be  alone,  that  he  has  things  to  occupy 
which  do  not  brook  companionship.  The  frankness  of 
the  nursery  may  still  linger  about  their  intercourse 
and  no  harm  done.  But  Edmund  felt,  as  was  equally 
natural,  as  if  he  had  been  meddling  and  his  efforts 
were  rejected  as  intrusive.  He  walked  very  quickly 
in  the  opposite  direction,  driven  by  annoyance  and 
something  like  shame,  while  Roger  went  on  with  equal 
speed  upon  his  way,  a  little  disturbed  and  uneasy,  but 
full  of  a  fervor  of  feeling  which  drove  all  those  lesser 
sentiments  before  it  like  a  strong  wind.  It  hurt  him 
to  hurt  Ned,  and  at  the  same  time  the  heat  of  his 
momentary  anger  against  Ned,  and  feeling  that  his 
presence  was  extremely  uncalled  for,  impelled  him  to 
do  so  ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  his  brother  and  everything  else  save  the  errand 
upon  which  he  was  bound. 

Edmund  had  no  such  burning  motive  in  his  heart. 
When  the  little  flash  of  irritation  was  over,  evaporat- 
ing in  the  speed  of  movement  and  the  prick  of  the 
fresh  breeze  which  blew  in  his  face,  —  which,  indeed, 
was  an  east  wind,  and  nothing  less,  though,  far  inland 
as  Melcombe  was  and  sheltered  by  many  woods,  it  was 
robbed  of  much  of  its  severity,  —  his  hasty  steps 
gradually  modified  into  that  slower  and  reflective  pace 
which  comes  natural  to  a  thoughtful  person  in  the 
depths  of  the  country,  where  no  pressure  or  hurry  is. 
He  went  along  quietly  thinking  of  many  things. 
There  had  been  little  activity  in  Edmund's  life  ;  he 
had  been  somewhat  apt  to  follow  the  impulse  given 
him,  as  he  had  done  in  the  present  case,  accompanying 


BROTHERS.  81 

Roger,  with  no  intention  of  interfering  with  Roger, 
but  instinctively,  because  the  turn  had  been  taken 
which  led  that  way.  And  it  was  upon  this  peculiarity 
of  his  own  that  he  reflected,  as  he  turned  away.  He 
thought  of  his  brother,  for  whom  he  not  only  felt 
much  tenderness,  but  in  whom  he  took  a  pride  which 
was  not,  perhaps,  justified  by  any  superiority  in  Roger, 
but  was  the  younger  boy's  traditional  admiration  for 
his  elder  brother,  a  sentiment  which  often  lingers  after 
the  elder  brother  has  been  far  surpassed  by  the  younger 
one  and  left  behind.  In  some  respects  this  had  been 
done  in  Edmund's  case.  He  had  a  better  head  than 
Roger,  and  of  this  he  could  not  but  be  aware.  He  had 
done  better  in  education  than  Roger ;  indeed,  he  had 
accomplished  much  which  Roger  had  not  even  tried  to 
do.  He  was  in  reality  more  independent,  more  in- 
dividual, than  his  brother,  who  was  of  the  order  of  the 
country  squire,  without  any  higher  aspirations.  But 
yet  Edmund  had  always  been  proud  of  him,  and  so 
continued.  He  had  been  proud,  at  Oxford,  of  the  gay 
young  guardsman  who  brought  a  whiff  of  London  (not 
always  too  wholesome)  among  the  "  men,"  and  dis- 
persed the  mist  of  thin  talk  about  schools  and  books. 
He  was  proud  of  him  now  in  his  robustness,  his  knowl- 
edge of  out  door  things,  his  profound  learning  in 
horses,  his  great  rides  and  feats  of  all  kinds.  Roger 
could  far  out-ride  him,  out- walk  him,  even  out-talk  him 
in  his  own  way.  Edmund  admired  his  energy,  his 
quick  impulses,  his  certainty  of  being  right,  whether 
about  the  course  taken  by  the  fox  or  the  course  taken 
by  the  government.  As  a  true  man  of  his  time, 
knowing  how  very  much  is  to  be  said  on  both  sides, 
Edmund  secretly  laughed  at  this  certainty,  but  he  ad- 
mired it,  all  the  same. 


32  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Something,  however,  had  come  over  Roger,  in  these 
later  days,  which  had  a  strange  effect  upon  this  open- 
air  and  robust  young  man,  —  something  which  had 
cast  him  down  from  the  supreme  height  of  those  cer- 
tainties, and  at  the  same  time  opened  out  new  possi- 
bilities in  him.  To  think  of  Roger,  of  all  people  in 
the  world,  discussing  love,  —  love,  as  he  said,  with  a 
capital  letter,  giving  a  nervous  laugh,  —  a  thing  sur- 
rounded by  all  the  tremors  and  hesitations  and  uncer- 
tainties of  feeling,  complicated  by  horrible  doubts  and 
an  issue  which  he  could  not  control :  a  power  sweet 
but  terrible,  which  had  carried  him  out  of  himself,  as 
he  described  it,  and  out  of  all  his  habitual  ways.  This 
new  phase  of  Roger  made  him  more  and  more  inter- 
esting to  his  brother,  justified  the  instinctive  pride  in 
him  which  Edmund  had  always  felt,  and  awoke  a  hun- 
dred questions  in  the  quiescent  breast  of  the  young 
man,  who,  his  own  romance  having  died  out  to  the 
very  ashes,  felt  himself  put  aside  from  life,  and  for 
the  moment  in  the  position  of  a  spectator.  Where 
was  a  greater  instance  of  the  perversity  of  circum- 
stances, or,  rather,  of  human  hearts  and  wishes?  It 
had  seemed  to  many  people,  not  only  to  the  family 
most  concerned,  that  Roger  Mitford  and  Elizabeth 
Travers  were  specially  indicated  by  Providence  as  a 
pair  "  fitly  formed  to  meet  by  nature."  Their  estates 
lay  side  by  side ;  their  characters  were  similar,  or  so 
the  country  thought.  What  Elizabeth  wanted  in 
point  of  family  was  fully  made  up  by  Roger  ;  and 
though  there  was  no  want  at  Melcombe  of  a  wife's 
money,  still  it  is  well  known  that  more  money  never 
comes  amiss  even  to  the  wealthiest.  Thus  everything 
indicated  a  match,  which  had  the  "  suitability  "  which 


BROTHERS.  33 

Edmund  had  appealed   to  in   its   favor  in   an   over- 
whelming way. 

Alas,  suitability  is  a  delusion  and  snare.  It  severs 
more  heaven-destined  partners  than  it  unites  ;  it  lights 
fires  of  resistance  in  the  youthful  soul.  Roger  had 
never  been  supposed  to  be  romantic,  but  even  upon 
his  seemingly  unfantastic  mind  this  rebellion  against 
the  suitable  had  told.  At  least,  so  he  asserted  now 
with  vehement  emphasis,  as  has  been  seen.  There 
had,  however,  been  a  moment  when  it  was  not  sup- 
posed that  he  had  felt  this  drawback ;  when  he  and 
the  heiress  had  ridden  together,  danced  together, 
walked  and  talked  together,  and  all  had  been  sup- 
posed to  be  in  good  train.  Edmund's  mind  went  back 
to  this  period  as  he  walked  along.  From  Roger's  it 
had  disappeared  altogether ;  had  it  also  disappeared 
from  that  of  Elizabeth?  The  neighborhood  had  un- 
hesitatingly concluded  that  she  had  not  been  slow  to 
make  up  her  mind,  and  that  when  Roger's  proposal 
was  made  it  would  be  accepted  without  delay  or  doubt. 
Edmund  had  himself  been  of  that  opinion.  When 
he  had  seen  her  horse  and  groom  outside  the  Rectory 
gates,  a  keen  sympathetic  pang  had  gone  through  his 
mind.  He  was  fond  of  entering  into  other  people's 
feelings,  and  he  had  thought  instinctively  of  the  proud, 
yet  tender,  woman  watching  from  the  window  the  man 
whom  she  perhaps  loved,  whom,  at  least,  she  had  begun 
to  think  of  as  a  man  who  meant  to  seek  her  love,  — 
watching  him  pass  by  on  the  other  side,  without  a 
look  or  thought.  The  woman  could  make  no  sign ; 
the  woman  was  bound  to  stand  like  an  Indian  at  the 
stake,  whatever  happened,  and  never  show  what  she 
felt.  Edmund's  mind  hung  between  these  two  with  a 


34  THE  SECOND  SON. 

poignant  sense  of  pain,  of  which,  possibly,  he  did  not 
render  a  full  and  frank  account  to  himself.  Was  it 
for  Roger  gone  astray,  or  for  Elizabeth  slighted  and 
disappointed,  or  was  there  still  some  subtler  sentiment 
underneath  ? 


IV. 

THE  WEST  LODGE. 

ROGER  MITFORD  quickened  his  steps  as  his  brother 
left  him.  He  had  been  like  a  dog  in  a  leash,  com- 
pelled to  curb  his  impatient  impulse ;  now  he  darted 
forward,  the  fervor  in  his  heart  carrying  all  before  it. 
It  was  no  walk  upon  which  he  was  bound.  There  is 
no  mistaking  the  expression  on  the  face  of  a  man  who 
is  going  somewhere,  who  knows  exactly  where  he  is 
going  and  is  eager  to  get  there.  He  walked  on  as  if 
for  a  wager  along  the  winding  country  road. 

Presently  this  impulse  came  to  an  end,  or  at  all 
events  he  paused,  relapsed  into  a  saunter,  but  a  saun- 
ter in  which  the  same  nervous  impatience  was  dis- 
guised. In  many  things,  but  most  especially  in  that 
kind  of  pursuit  which  absorbed  Roger,  the  hurry  of 
the  eager  pursuer  fails  as  he  reaches  the  point  at 
which  he  has  aimed.  As  he  draws  near  he  grows 
cautious,  he  grows  timid.  A  terror  of  what  he  may 
find  when  he  gets  to  the  end  seizes  him.  "  If  Lucy 
should  be  dead  !  "  cries  the  poet.  But  that  is  an  ex- 
treme case.  It  may  be  that  Lucy  will  be  cruel,  that 
she  will  be  indifferent ;  it  may  be  —  oh  misery  worse 
than  either  alternative  —  that  she  is  not  there.  Finally 
Roger  swung  open  the  gate  known  as  the  west  gate 
of  Melcombe  park,  and  stole  in  with  almost  noiseless 
steps,  holding  his  breath.  No  sign  of  hurry  then  was 
in  his  mild  aspect.  He  had  only  come  round  to  ask 


86  THE  SECOND  SON. 

Ford  the  keeper  something  about  the  dogs,  —  a  most 
innocent  question  which  was  really  of  no  consequence. 
"  I  '11  wait  a  bit,  and  perhaps  he  '11  turn  up,"  Roger 
said,  slightly  breathless.  "  If  he  does  n't,  it 's  really 
of  no  consequence  —  only  something  about  the  pup- 
pies. I  '11  wait  a  bit,  and  see  if  he  conies  in.  How 
is  your  garden  looking  this  fine  day  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Ford,  "  when  the  sun 
come  out  this  morning  it  was  just  a-blaze.  All  the 
crocuses  a-shining  like  gold.  Them  crocuses  is  the 
nicest  things  as  ever  was.  You  could  n't  have  done  a 
kinder  action  to  Lily  and  me." 

"  I  'm  very  glad  you  like  them.  They  're  simple 
things  enough,  —  the  very  simplest  you  could  get  any- 
where ;  why,  gardeners,  you  know,  make  no  account 
at  all  of  them." 

"  Gardeners  is  very  queer,"  said  Mrs.  Ford.  "  I 
don't  think  they  care  for  nothing  as  has  n't  a  name 
that 's  three  miles  long,  as  Lily  says.  She  does  take 
her  fun  out  of  the  Scotch  gardener  about  that,  Mr. 
Roger.  You  should  just  hear  her  at  him.  My  Lily 
has  a  deal  of  fun  in  her,  when  she  don't  stand  in 
awe  of  a  person." 

"  Of  whom  does  she  stand  in  awe  ? "  asked  Roger, 
with  a  smile  which  lit  up  his  face  into  tenderness; 
then  it  suddenly  clouded  over.  "  The  Scotch  gardener 
is  not  society  for  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Ford." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Roger !  bless  you,  he  thinks  himself  much 
too  grand  for  the  like  of  us." 

"  Then  he 's  a  puppy  and  a  fool,  and  does  n't  know 
what  he 's  talking  of  I  "  cried  Roger  hotly.  He  paused, 
and,  restraining  himself,  continued  with  a  smile,  "  I 
hope  I  'm  not  the  person  of  whom  Lily  stands  in 


THE    WEST  LODGE.  37 

"  Oh,  sir !  you  're  a  deal  too  good  and  kind,"  cried 
the  keeper's  wife,  taking  up  her  apron  to  remove  an 
invisible  particle  of  dust,  and  avoiding  the  young 
master's  eye.  Then  there  was  a  momentary  pause* 

"  Ford  does  n't  seem  to  be  coming,"  remarked  Roger 
at  last. 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't  expect  him  till  tea-time  at  soon- 
est. He  said  as  he  was  going  to  make  a  long  round 
out  by  Bilbury  Hollow,  and  then  down  by  "  — 

"  Well,"  said  Roger  cheerfully,  interrupting  her, 
"  I  '11  take  a  look  at  the  puppies  before  I  go,  and  I 
should  like  to  see  your  crocuses,  Mrs.  Ford,  now  I  'm 
here." 

"  They  're  not  half  as  fine  as  in  the  morning,  sir," 
said  the  keeper's  wife.  "  The  sun 's  gone  in,  and  they 
're  just  like  children  at  school ;  they  Ve  gone  in,  too. 
If  you  were  a-passing  this  way,  sir,  some  time  in  the 
morning"  — 

"There's  no  time  like  the  present,"  answered  Roger; 
"  but  you  need  n't  disturb  yourself,  if  you  're  busy.  I 
think  I  ought  to  know  the  way." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  no  doubt  you  knows  it,"  said  the 
woman,  hesitating.  But  whatever  her  feelings  might 
be  on  the  subject,  it  was  clear  that  she  could  not  oppose 
the  entrance  of  the  master's  sou,  the  young  Squire, 
through  whose  favor  her  husband  had  got  the  place, 
and  on  whose  favor  they  all  depended.  But  the  keep- 
er's wife,  with  an  uneasy  soul,  saw  him  pass  through 
her  house  to  the  greenness  of  the  garden  which  was 
visible  behind.  No  one  knew  or  shared  her  anxieties. 
She  stood  looking  after  him  helplessly  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  shaking  her  head,  returned  to  her  work, 
with  the  sort  of  unsatisfactory  consolation  there  is  in 
utter  helplessness :  for  what  could  she  do  ? 


38  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Roger  stepped  along  through  the  passage  which  tra- 
versed the  little  house  with  a  step  which  in  itself  was 
full  of  revelations.  It  rung  upon  the  floor  with  a  sort 
of  triumph,  yet  timidity.  He  was  on  the  eve  of  attain- 
ing a  pleasure  which  had  still  more  or  less  to  be  schemed 
for,  which  he  could  not  seek  openly.  He  had  before 
him  the  prospect  of  such  an  occupation  for  the  after- 
noon's idleness  as  it  made  his  heart  beat  to  think  of ; 
and  yet  whether  he  should  have  this  pleasure  at  all, 
whether  these  hours  should  be  enchantment  or  a  blank 
of  disillusion  and  misery,  was  not  in  his  own  power, 
but  in  that  of  another,  —  of  one  whose  very  charm  was 
the  caprice  which  wounded  yet  delighted,  which  some- 
times made  him  miserable  and  sometimes  intoxicated 
him  with  pleasure.  It  is  not  all  men  who  are  liable  to 
this  kind  of  subjugation,  but  Roger  had  all  the  quali- 
ties which  give  it  supreme  power.  He  was  little  used 
to  women,  still  less  to  the  kind  of  woman  to  whom  the 
pursuit  and  subjugation  of  man  are  natural,  and  who 
puts  a  hunter's  passion,  his  wiles  and  cunning,  his 
patience  and  his  vehemence  alike,  and  disregard  of  all 
other  things,  into  her  sport.  He  was  simple-minded, 
seeking  no  recondite  motives,  believing  in  what  ap- 
peared before  his  eyes.  And  he  was  in  need  of  an 
object,  his  mind  vacant  and  unoccupied  except  by  those 
matters  of  physical  activity  which  cannot  be  always 
pursued,  and  which  leave  a  perilous  blank  when  they 
are  withdrawn.  Perhaps  if  he  could  have  hunted  all 
the  year  through,  if  the  shooting  could  have  lasted,  if 
the  village  football  and  cricket  had  been  continuous 
and  exciting  enough,  he  might  never  have  thought  of 
the  more  seductive  play  which  occupies  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  heart.  But  there  are  perforce  periods  in 
country  life  in  which  there  is,  as  ces  messieurs  lament, 


THE    WEST  LODGE.  39 

nothing  to  do.  M.  Ohnet's  latest  hero,  at  such  a  pause 
in  existence,  elegantly  devotes  himself  to  the  seduction 
of  the  nearest  lady  as  the  right  and  natural  alternative. 
A  vicious  young  Englishman  of  earlier  date,  in  such 
circumstances,  might  perhaps  have  found  in  the  keep- 
er's pretty  daughter  a  natural  victim.  But  Roger  was 
neither  a  beau  garfon  of  the  French  type,  nor  a  Squire 
Thornhill  of  the  last  century.  And  when  he  fell  under 
this  unaccustomed  spell,  it  was  himself  who  became,  or 
was  likely  to  become,  the  victim.  There  was  no  idea, 
however,  of  any  victim  in  the  sensations  with  which 
he  went  through  the  keeper's  cottage  into  the  garden 
behind.  It  was  Armicla's  garden,  the  Bower  of  Bliss, 
the  fool's  paradise,  to  Roger.  Away  from  it  he  was 
not  without  serious  thought  of  what  it  might  come  to, 
and  a  just  perception  of  all  the  difficulties  and  impos- 
sibilities in  his  way.  But  at  this  moment  he  thought 
of  nothing  of  the  kind.  All  the  restraints  of  judg- 
ment, of  good  sense  and  practical  possibility,  were  with- 
drawn. He  was  hurrying  to  an  intoxication  more 
delightful  than  any  which  vulgarer  methods  could 
afford.  The  delicate  fumes  had  mounted  to  his  head 
already,  though  he  had  not  yet  tasted  the  dangerous 
draught. 

The  keeper's  cottage,  known  as  the  West  Lodge, 
was  very  much  like  many  other  lodges  at  the  park 
gates  of  country  houses.  It  was  built  of  red  brick, 
with  gables  intended  to  be  picturesque,  but  without 
any  pretense  at  antiquity,  being  indeed  a  quite  recent 
erection  and  in  conformity  with  the  taste  of  the  mo- 
ment. It  was,  however,  already  half  covered  with 
creepers,  and  on  the  warm  south  wall  the  roses  and 
honeysuckles  which  made  it  sweet  in  summer  were 
bursting  into  full  leaf.  The  garden  behind  was  sepa- 


40  THE   SECOND  SON. 

rated  from  the  park  only  by  a  railing,  and  in  the  season 
of  flowers  it  was  a  sight  to  see.  The  keeper's  wife 
was  one  of  those  women  with  an  instinct  for  flowers, 
under  whose  hand  everything  thrives,  and  her  simple 
gardening  by  the  light  of  nature  and  homely  experience 
succeeded  better  than  art.  Mrs.  Ford  had  married 
somewhat  late  in  life,  and  had  been  a  florist  in  her 
untutored  way  before  she  was  a  mother.  She  took 
her  baby,  when  it  came  unexpectedly,  past  the  time 
for  such  vanities,  very  much  as  she  would  have  taken 
some  new  and  rare  plant.  It  was  no  rough  boy,  to 
fall  into  the  father's  way,  and  grow  up  in  velveteens, 
a  miniature  keeper,  but  a  girl,  a  delicate  little  crea- 
ture, a  sort  of  animated  flower,  transporting  the  elderly 
mother  into  a  heaven  of  tender  worship  such  as  she 
had  never  dreamed  of.  The  great  white  lilies  were 
standing  in  angelic  groups  about  the  garden,  with  their 
stately  heads  bent  in  the  reverence  of  that  Ave  which 
the  flower  of  the  Annunciation  has  brought  out  of  the 
old  pictures,  out  of  tender  tradition,  to  make  it  doubly 
sweet.  The  keeper's  wife  could  see*  them  from  where 
she  lay,  with  the  little  woman-child  who  was  her  flower 
and  late  blossom  in  her  arms ;  and  what  could  she 
name  it  but  Lily,  in  the  still  transport  of  her  soul  ? 
The  flowers  and  the  child  were  as  one  in  her  eyes,  the 
most  exquisite  things  in  the  earth,  good  enough  for  a 
queen,  yet  hers,  which  was  a  wonder  she  never  could 
get  over.  Lily  the  child  grew  up  in  such  delicacy  and 
daintiness  as  the  endless  care  and  worship  of  a  mother 
often  brings.  Mrs.  Ford's  own  perceptions  grew  finer 
through  the  medium  of  the  child.  Perhaps  her  flow- 
ers, too,  gave  her  a  delicacy  not  to  be  expected  among 
her  kind.  Lily  had  been  dressed  like  a  little  lady 
when  she  caught  Mrs.  Mitford's  eye,  and  was  carried 


THE    WEST  LODGE.  41 

to  the  Hall  to  be  admired  and  caressed  and  to  amuse 
the  invalid  lady  on  her  death- bed.  The  Squire's  wife  - 
was  not  a  judicious  adviser  for  a  woman  lost  in  such 
an  adoration.  She  took  a  violent  fancy  to  the  child, 
and  left  her  a  little  legacy  to  be  spent  in  her  education. 
"  She  must  not  grow  up  to  be  a  mere  house-maid.  She 
must  have  a  good  education ;  and  then  who  knows 
what  may  happen?"  Mrs.  Mitford  said,  with  a  smile 
that  made  Lily's  mother  dissolve  in  weeping.  Lily 
was  far  more  pretty,  far  more  dainty,  at  that  period 
than  poor  little  Nina,  who  was  in  the  nursery,  a  weakly 
baby,  left  to  the  nurse's  care.  From  that  moment  the 
girl's  fate  was  settled.  Mrs.  Ford  had  a  battle  to 
fight  with  her  husband,  who  comprehended  none  of 
these  delicacies,  and  did  not  understand  why  his  lit- 
tle girl  should  not  stir  about  the  house,  and  open  the 
lodge  gates,  and  help  her  mother.  But  even  Ford  was 
penetrated  by  and  by  with  the  pride  of  having  a  child 
who  was  like  nobody  else's,  and  whom  strangers  took 
for  a  little  lady  from  the  Hall.  He  was  mollified  by 
the  fact  that  the  radiant  little  creature  was  very  fond 
of  him,  and  would  sit  in  his  lap  and  coax  him  to  tell 
her  stories,  and  applaud  her  daddy's  crooning  of  rustic 
songs,  notwithstanding  her  white  frocks  and  her  les- 
sons from  the  Melcombe  governess.  There  is  nothing 
more  contagious  than  child  worship  in  any  circum- 
stances ;  and  Lily  was,  to  belong  to  a  keeper  and  his 
homely  wife,  a  miraculous  child.  Her  beauty  was  not 
of  the  dairy-maid  kind.  She  was  even  a  little  deficient 
in  color,  pale  as  suited  her  name.  And  as  she  grew 
older,  the  father  came  to  look  upon  her  with  a  little 
awe.  "Are  you  sure  she  was  n't  changed  at  nurse? "  he 
would  say  as  the  dainty  creature  stood  between  them, 
he  in  his  gaiters  at  one  side  of  the  hearth,  and  his 


42  THE  SECOND  SON. 

elderly  wife  in  her  black  cap  on  the  other,  with  her 
hard  hands  all  rough  with  work,  and  wrinkles  abound- 
ing in  the  homely  face  which  bore  the  brunt  of  all 
weather. 

"  I  know  as  she 's  never  left  my  lap  till  she  could 
run  by  herself,"  said  the  mother,  well  pleased.  But 
she  might  have  been  a  little  princess,  —  they  were 
both  agreed  on  that. 

Naturally,  the  bringing  up  of  Lily  was  a  point  upon 
which  the  whole  neighborhood  had  its  opinion,  which 
did  not  agree  with  that  of  Mrs.  Ford.  "  What  is  to 
come  of  it  ?  "  the  village  people  said ;  and  indeed  the 
West  Lodge  could  give  no  answer  to  that  question. 
"  Is  she  going  for  a  governess,  or  do  they  mean  her 
for  the  new  girls'  school  ?  "  her  more  favorable  critics 
asked,  when  Lily  came  home  with  her  education  com- 
pleted. Miss  Lemesurier  even  sent  for  the  mother, 
to  ask  this  question.  "  I  don't  approve  of  that  style 
of  education  even  for  such  a  purpose,"  said  Pax,  "  but 
I  will  speak  to  my  father,  Mrs.  Ford,  if  you  want  her 
to  try  for  the  girls'  school." 

"  No,  thank  you  kindly,  miss.  Her  father  and  me, 
we  don't  want  nothing  of  that  sort,"  Mrs.  Ford  re- 
plied. 

"  What  do  you  want,  then  ?  You  have  n't  given 
your  girl  an  expensive  education,  and  brought  her  up 
so  different  from  her  class,  without  some  meaning,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Well,  miss,"  said  the  keeper's  wife,  drawing  pat- 
terns on  the  carpet  with  the  point  of  her  umbrella, 
"  we  've  brought  up  Lily  as  we  thought  was  best  for 
her.  She 's  different  in  her  nature,  without  any  do- 
ing of  ours." 

"  I  wonder  how  you  can  talk  such  nonsense,"  cried 
Pax,  —  "a  sensible  woman  like  you !  " 


THE    WEST  LODGE.  43 

"  If  it 's  nonsense,  the  dear  lady  at  the  Hall,  she 
spoke  the  same.  She  saw  as  the  child  was  n't  like  one 
in  a  hundred.  Give  her  a  good  eddication,  she  said, 
and  then  "  — 

"Yes,  and  —  what  then?  That's  just  the  ques- 
tion." 

"  Well,  miss,  then  there 's  no  telling  what  may  hap- 
pen," Mrs.  Ford  said. 

"  Oh,  you  foolish  woman  !  "  cried  Pax,  holding  up 
her  hands  ;  "  oh,  you  "  —  But  words  failed  to  express 
the  force  of  her  feelings.  "  Mrs.  Mitford,  poor  thing, 
is  dead,  and  we  '11  say  no  harm  of  her,"  she  went  on, 
"  but  don't  you  see  what  that  means  ?  There  is  only 
one  thing  it  can  mean.  It  was  like  her  sentimental, 
silly  ways  to  put  it  in  your  head.  It  means  that  you 
expect  some  fine  gentleman  to  come  and  fall  in  love 
with  her  and  carry  the  girl  away." 

"  I  'm  not  thinking  anything  of  the  sort,"  cried  the 
mother,  springing  up  and  growing  red  ;  for  English 
mothers,  both  high  and  low,  whatever  may  be  their 
prudential  outlook,  unlike  all  parents  of  other  races, 
vehemently  deny  that  such  a  thing  as  marrying  a 
daughter  ever  enters  into  their  heads.  But  Mrs. 
Ford  was  too  simple  and  too  self-conscious  to  add  any- 
thing to  this  first  denial.  Aware  of  the  guilty  hopes 
in  her  heart,  she  broke  forth  with,  "  Oh,  Miss  Pax,  I 
never  thought  as  you  'd  say  such  things  to  me  !  "  and 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  I  don't  know  that  there  would  be  anything  wrong 
in  it,"  said  Pax  impatiently.  "  If  I  saw  any  way  to 
a  good  marriage  for  Lily  or  any  one,  I  'd  certainly 
help  it  on.  But  suppose  she  caught  some  one  far 
above  her,  which  is  what  you  're  thinking  of,  you 
know,  —  what  would  happen  ?  If  the  very  best  came 


44  THE   SECOND  SON. 

that  you  could  hope  for,  which  is  very,  very  unlikely, 
he  'd  take  her  away  from  you,  and  separate  her  from 
yon,  and  perhaps  never  let  her  come  near  you  more." 

The  mother  dried  her  eyes  indignantly.  "  It 's 
clear  to  me  you  don't  know  my  Lily ;  and  how  should 
you?  "  Mrs.  Ford  cried,  with  mingled  resentment  and 
pity.  "  They  might  tear  her  with  wild  horses,  but 
they  would  never  get  her  to  consent  to  that." 

"Perhaps  so  ;  but  you  would  n't  like  her  to  be  torn 
with  wild  horses,  would  you  ?  "  Pax  said. 

These  words  gave  Mrs.  Ford  a  tremor  for  the  mo- 
ment ;  they  gave  her  "  a  turn,"  she  said  to  herself. 
But  as  there  was  no  immediate  possibility  of  verifying 
them,  and  it  is  much  pleasanter  to  think  of  events 
taking  a  favorable  course  than  a  bad  one,  she  was 
able  to  dismiss  them  out  of  her  mind  for  the  time. 
Still  it  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  have  had  said  to 
her.  Lily  would  never  abandon  her  mother,  never 
turn  her  back  upon  her,  not  if  she  were  drawn  with 
wild  horses.  But  how  about  the  wild  horses  ?  The 
mother's  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment.  Better  she 
should  be  abandoned,  cast  off,  dropped  forever,  than 
that  Lily  should  be  exposed  to  that  rending.  It  gave 
Mrs.  Ford  a  "  dreadful  turn."  But  then  she  hastily 
thrust  it  out  of  her  mind. 

It  was  enough  to  make  any  mother's  heart  dance  to 
see  the  radiant  creature  Lily  came  home.  Her  hair 
was  light  brown  and  silky,  and  shone  in  the  sun  like 
gold.  Her  mother  thought  she  had  seen  nothing  like 
it  save  the  knot  of  spun  glass  which  she  had  brought 
home  from  the  exhibition  once  held  at  Beaulieu,  and 
kept  under  a  little  glass  shade  on  the  mantelpiece. 
Her  face  was  like  a  flower,  though  more  like  a  rose 
now  than  a  lily  ;  her  complexion  more  tender,  delicate, 


THE    WEST  LODGE.  45 

and  perfect  in  its  first  bloom  than  anything  but  a 
girl's  complexion  can  be.  Her  eyes  were  as  blue  as 
the  sky.  To  be  sure,  the  features  were  not  perfect,  if 
Mrs.  Ford  had  been  disposed  to  take  them  to  pieces. 
The  girl's  slim  figure  was  also  like  a  flower,  tall  and 
light,  and  swaying  a  little,  as  a  lily  does  with  its 
graceful,  drooping  head.  To  think  of  such  a  creature 
doing  housework,  or  looking  after  the  dog's  meat,  was 
a  thing  that  made  the  parents  shiver ;  whatever  hap- 
pened to  them,  that  was  impossible  ;  they  had  not 
brought  her  home  from  the  genteel  seminary  and  all 
her  nice  companions  for  that.  It  was,  indeed,  after 
the  first  rapture  of  her  return,  an  embarrassing  ques- 
tion what  Lily  was  to  do.  The  parents  did  not  know 
what  to  make  of  it ;  they  did  not  know  what  to  say 
to  her  on  the  subject,  or  whether  to  suggest  that  it 
was  necessary  to  do  something.  Lily  did  not  at  first 
appear  to  see  any  necessity.  She  went  out  with  her 
pencils  and  colors  and  made  little  sketches  ;  and  she 
played  "pieces"  upon  the  jingling  piano,  which  had 
come  out  of  the  school-room  at  Melcombe,  and  sounded 
like  an  old  tin  kettle  ;  and  for  some  time  seemed  to 
suppose  that  this  was  all  that  was  required  of  her; 
but  this  blissful  state  of  ignorance  was  dispelled  by 
communications  made  to  the  girl  in  the  village  at  a 
little  tea  party,  where  she  was  eagerly  questioned  as 
to  whether  she  were  going  into  service,  or  what  she 
was  going  to  do.  Lily  was  awakened  rudely  under 
the  fire  of  these  demands,  but  she  was  not  without 
spirit,  and  she  had  accepted  the  position.  The  house- 
keeper at  Melcombe  had  some  sewing  to  be  done 
which  was  finer  than  the  village  was  equal  to ;  and 
Lily  installed  herself  in  the  vacant  little  room  that 
was  called  the  parlor,  which  had  never  been  used  till 


46  THE   SECOND  SON. 

her  return.  And  here  the  parents,  growing  less  and 
less  wise  as  they  came  more  and  more  under  the  influ- 
ence of  this  dazzling  child  of  theirs,  made  Lily  a 
bower.  It  looked  into  the  garden,  and  Ford,  with  the 
aid  of  some  of  the  workmen  on  the  estate,  made  the 
window  into  a  glass  door  opening  into  that  flowery  in- 
closure.  There  Lily  took  up  her  abode,  with  her 
pretty  accomplishments  and  her  pretty  dresses,  to  see 
what  would  happen.  Those  words  which  her  early 
patroness  had  said  had  not  indeed  been  reported  to 
her.  But  she  felt  as  Mrs.  Mitford  had  done,  as  her 
mother  did,  as  Pax  had  instantly  divined,  that  there 
was  no  telling  what  might  happen.  The  preparation 
was  over  ;  the  results  might  be  anticipated  any  day. 

What  was  it  the  girl  expected  when  she  sat  down 
to  her  little  pretense  of  work  in  her  little  room,  all 
fenced  and  guarded  from  intrusion,  looking  out  upon 
her  flowers  ?  She  did  not  know ;  neither  did  the 
mother  know  who  had  prepared  it  all  for  her,  as  if 
with  a  settled  plan  and  purpose.  There  was  no  tell- 
ing what  might  happen  ;  there  was  no  telling  what 
fine  fortune  or  beautiful  hero  might  suddenly  come 
out  of  the  unknown.  Lily  sat  down  in  her  bower  all 
hidden  among  the  leaves,  and  put  out  her  webs  uncon- 
sciously, as  perhaps  the  spiders  do  when  they  begin. 
It  is  not  a  lovely  comparison,  and  she  meant  to  devour 
no  one;  but  the  girl,  in  all  her  prettiness,  was  like 
nothing  in  the  realms  of  nature  so  much  as  the  swift 
and  skillful  creature  which  spreads  out  those  fairy 
webs,  the  toile  a  la  bonne  vierge,  to  shiver  upon  every 
bush  in  the  autumn  sun. 

It  was  not  long  before  an  event  occurred  which 
made  the  heart  of  this  little  enchantress  leap  into  her 
mouth  in  fright  and  triumph.  One  can  imagine  that 


THE    WEST  LODGE.  47 

to  a  little  spider,  new  to  her  work,  the  sudden  bounce 
of  a  great  fat  fly  into  those  gossamers  which  she  has 
extended  by  instinct  in  the  sun,  without  any  clear  idea 
what  is  to  come  of  them,  must  be  an  alarming  as  well 
as  an  exciting  sight.  Will  those  airy  meshes  be 
strong  enough  to  bear  that  weight  ?  "Will  they  tear 
asunder  under  it  ?  And  what  is  to  be  done  with  this 
altogether  unlooked-for  victim,  so  much  bigger  than 
his  captor?  Something  like  this  thrill  of  strange 
sensation  darted  through  Lily  Ford,  when  all  at  once 
it  became  apparent  to  her  that  the  vague  event 
which  there  was  no  divining,  the  wonder  for  which 
she  had  been  looking,  had  come.  She  had  not  selected 
that  particular  prey  any  more  than  the  spider  does. 
And  it  would  be  impossible  to  imagine  anything  fur- 
ther from  the  thoughts  of  Roger  Mitford,  when  he 
strolled  into  Ford's  cottage  as  he  passed,  with  some 
question  about  the  young  birds  and  the  prospects  of 
the  shooting,  than  that  he  should  then  and  there  be 
brought  face  to  face  with  his  fate.  It  was  with  no 
purpose,  even,  that  he  was  led  into  Lily's  parlor  for 
greater  honor,  the  fire  in  the  kitchen  being  overpow- 
ering on  the  hot  August  evening.  He  went  in  un- 
suspecting, and  asked  his  questions  all  unaware  of 
Armida  in  her  corner,  who,  for  her  part,  intended  the 
young  Squire  no  harm.  But  when  he  made  some  re- 
mark which  Ford  did  not  understand  at  once,  and  the 
girl's  quick,  clear  voice  rose  in  the  dusk,  explaining  it, 
and  Roger,  amused  and  interested,  stepped  to  the  open 
window  opening  into  the  garden,  and  in  the  mystic 
twilight,  just  touched  by  the  glimmer  of  the  small 
new  moon,  saw  the  unthought-of,  unlooked-for  appari- 
tion, and  asked,  surprised,  if  this  were  Lily,  the  deed 
was  done.  He  was  not  himself  aware  of  it,  but  she 


48  THE  SECOND  SON. 

was  aware  of  it,  feeling  the  tug,  let  us  suppose,  in  all 
the  delicate,  invisible  threads  of  her  nets,  as  this  big 
captive  caught  in  them.  Roger  lingered  talking  to 
her  for  ten  minutes,  pleased  to  find  his  mother's  baby 
favorite  developed  into  so  charming  a  creature,  and 
went  away  thinking  no  more  of  it.  But  after  that  he 
returned  again  and  again.  And  this  was  why  he  had 
discoursed  to  his  brother,  he  a  man  who  knew  nothing 
about  poetry  or  the  fictions  of  the  romancers,  upon 
the  mystery  of  love ;  and  why  the  keeper's  wife  en- 
deavored with  affright  to  keep  him  out  of  the  garden, 
where  the  cobwebs  entangled  everything,  though  it 
was  now  no  longer  autumn,  but  spring.  But  Lily 
sat  within  and  peeped  out,  hearing  his  voice,  and  ex- 
pected him,  drawing  the  young  man  with  her  mysteri- 
ous thread.  For  the  enchantress  had  forgotten  her 
alarm  in  the  pleasure  of  conquest,  and  for  her  victim 
she  was  without  ruth  or  pity. 


V. 

AFTER   DINNER. 

"  I  HEARD,"  said  Mr.  Mitford,  when  the  servants 
had  left  the  room,  "  that  Elizabeth  Travers  was  over 
here  to-day.  Who  saw  her  when  she  came  ?  —  or 
was  it  true  "  — 

A  look  was  exchanged  very  quickly,  almost  imper- 
ceptibly, by  the  others  round  the  table,  and  Nina, 
who  had  not  yet  had  time  to  go  away,  answered  in 
her  little  voice,  which  had  still  something  in  it  of  the 
shrillness  of  childhood,  "  She  was  not  here,  papa." 

"  But  I  heard  that  she  was  here,"  said  Mr.  Mit- 
ford, in  his  peremptory  tones.  He  was  one  of  the 
men  who  are  always  ready  to  suppose  that  they  are 
being  deceived,  and  that  every  contradiction  must  be 
a  lie,  —  possibly  intentional,  perhaps  only  uttered  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  but  at  all  events  untrue. 

Roger,  who  knew  what  was  coming,  stirred  in  his 
chair  with  a  consciousness  that  could  not  quite  be 
concealed ;  but  it  was  Edmund  who  replied  :  — 

"  She  was  at  the  Rectory,  sir.  We  saw  her  mare 
in  front  of  the  gates,  as  we  were  going  to  the  railway 
with  Steve." 

"  Which  of  you  went  in  to  make  her  welcome  ? " 
the  Squire  asked. 

"  I  don't  think  any  of  us  thought  of  it.  Steve  had 
only  just  time  to  catch  his  train." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  Steve.     What  has  Steve  to 


50  THE   SECOND  SON. 

do  with  it?  But  you  two,  I  suppose,  had  no  train 
to  catch.  It  was  most  fraternal,  truly  beautiful,  to 
walk  down  with  your  brother,  but  it  did  not,  I  imag- 
ine, occupy  all  your  souls." 

"I  don't  pretend  it  occupied  much  of  my  soul," 
said  Roger.  He  had  turned  half  round  on  his  chair, 
perhaps  out  of  mere  caprice,  perhaps  that  the  light 
might  not  fall  so  distinctly  on  his  face. 

"  And  when  you  saw  her  there,  —  a  fine  creature, 
handsome  enough  to  turn  any  young  fellow's  head, 
and  as  nice  as  she 's  handsome,  —  you  forgot  all 
about  Stephen,  and  did  your  best  to  make  yourself 
agreeable  ?  Much  as  I  value  family  affection,"  said 
the  Squire,  in  the  voice  of  satire  which  his  children 
dreaded,  "  I  could  forgive  that." 

Nina  was  not  clever  enough  to  see  what  it  was 
about,  but  she  perceived  that  the  situation  was  strained, 
and  she  made  a  little  diversion  for  the  brothers  by 
leaving  the  table.  Mr.  Mitford  never  entered  the 
drawing-room  after  dinner,  so  that  Nina's  departure 
was  accompanied  by  a  little  ceremonial  which  some- 
times had  the  effect  of  changing  a  disagreeable  sub- 
ject. She  went  up  to  her  father,  and  put  her  soft 
little  lips  to  the  weather-beaten  cheek  which  he  turned 
carelessly  towards  her.  "  Good-night,  papa,"  she 
said. 

"  Good-night,  good-night,"  he  replied,  almost  with 
impatience.  This  time  the  diversion  was  without  ef- 
fect. That  Roger  should  get  up  to  open  the  door 
for  her  seemed  to  Mr.  Mitford  a  quite  unnecessary 
ceremony ;  and  it  must  be  owned  that  Roger  himself 
but  seldom  remembered  this  homage  to  womanhood 
in  the  person  of  so  familiar  and  unimportant  an  object 
as  his  little  sister.  He  had  to  come  back  from  the 


AFTER  DINNER.  51 

door,  by  which  he  was  so  much  tempted  to  escape,  and 
take  his  chair  again,  which  he  did  most  unwillingly, 
foreseeing  trouble  to  come. 

"  Well !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  How  far  did  you  go 
with  her?  Or  rather,  how  long  did  she  stay?" 

"  I  told  you,  sir,"  said  Edmund,  "  that  we  went 
with  Steve  to  the  railway." 

"  Again  !  what  has  Steve  to  do  with  it  ?"  the  father 
cried. 

"  So  that  we  saw  nothing  but  the  groom  with  the 
mare.  Her  visit  was  at  the  Rectory,  not  here." 

"  At  the  Rectory,  and  not  here ! "  repeated  the 
Squire,  with  a  contemptuous  (and  very  unsuccessful) 
mimicry  of  his  son's  tone.  "  Did  I  ever  say  it  was 
here?  How  could  she  come  here,  to  a  house  where 
there  's  no  woman,  to  throw  herself  at  your  heads  ? 
That 's  what  you  expect  a  girl  to  do,  you  young  fel- 
lows nowadays.  She  went  as  far  as  she  could  in 
coming  to  the  Rectory.  By  Jove,  when  I  was  your 
age  I  should  soon  have  let  her  see  I  knew  what  she 
meant." 

"  You  forget,  sir,"  said  Roger,  evidently  restrain- 
ing himself  with  an  effort,  "  that  there  is  not  the 
slightest  reason  to  suppose  —  indeed,  that  we  have  not 
the  least  right  to  imagine  —  Miss  Travers's  visit  to 
her  friend  at  the  Rectory  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
us." 

"  I  don't  forget,  sir,"  cried  the  angry  father,  "  that 
you  're  a  puppy  and  a  coxcomb,  and  that  Lizzy  Trav- 
ers  is  twenty  thousand  times  too  good  for  you." 

This  perfectly  irrelevant  sentiment  was  delivered 
with  so  much  heat  that  Edmund  gave  his  brother  an 
anxious,  deprecatory  look,  to  which  Roger  replied 
with  an  indignant  frown  before  he  spoke.  "  I  am 
convinced  of  that,"  he  said. 


62  THE  SECOND   SON. 

"  Convinced  that  you  mean  to  let  her  be  carried  off 
before  your  very  eyes  !  There  's  that  long-shanked 
simpleton  Ray  Tredgold :  though  he  's  A  boy  and  a 
fool,  he  has  more  sense  than  you.  I  saw  him  at  her 
bridle,  assiduous  enough,  I  can  tell  you,  and  Tredgold 
himself  settling  her  stirrup  for  her.  Why  were  n't 
you  there?  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by  always 
being  out  of  the  way  when  there 's  a  really  good 
chance  for  you  ?  And  she  must  have  seen  you  pass 
under  her  very  nose,  taking  no  notice.  A  pretty  way 
to  treat  a  lady,  and  the  handsomest  woman  in  the 
country,  and  all  the  Biglow  estate  at  her  apron 
strings !  " 

"  I  'in  very  sorry,  sir,  if  you  thought  us  negligent," 
said  Edmund.  "  For  my  part,  I  think  it  would  have 
been  very  bad  taste  to  interrupt  her  at  that  moment. 
She  had  just  arrived,  she  was  with  her  particular 
friend." 

"  What,"  said  Mr.  Mitford,  with  a  laugh,  "  are  you 
still  so  soft  in  that  quarter,  Ned  ?  To  think  any 
woman  in  the  world  would  prefer  Pax  Leuiesurier  to 
an  admirer  of  the  other  sex  !  We  all  know  your 
sentiments  in  that  quarter,  my  boy :  but  women  are 
not  such  fools  as  to  care  for  each  other's  company  ex- 
cept when  there 's  nothing  better  to  be  got." 

To  this  neither  of  the  young  men  made  any  reply. 
It  is  possible  that  they  were  themselves  of  the  same 
opinion,  regarding  it  with  blind  faith  as  a  sort  of 
mathematical  axiom,  recognized  by  everybody  and  be- 
yond the  necessity  of  proof.  But  to  a  man  who  is 
angry,  and  who  is  relieving  his  mind  on  a  legitimate 
subject,  there  is  nothing  so  exasperating  as  silence. 
It  is  worse  than  contradiction,  for  it  implies  disre- 
spect. It  implies  that  he  is  not  worth  arguing  with, 


AFTER   DINNER.  53 

that  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  bear  with  him  and 
let  the  tempest  die  away. 

"  You  seem  to  have  nothing  to  say  for  yourself,"  he 
said,  turning  to  Roger,  "  and  I  don't  wonder.  But  at 
least  you  know  my  opinion.  You  are  acting  like  a 
fool,  in  the  first  place,  and  how  far  it  is  strictly  hon- 
orable "  — 

"  Honorable  !  "  exclaimed  Roger,  turning  round  sud- 
denly from  where  he  had  placed  himself  with  his  face 
in  shadow. 

"  I  '111  not  afraid  of  you,"  said  his  father,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Honorable,  —  that 's  what  I  said.  Accord- 
ing to  my  old-fashioned  code,  it 's  distinctly  not  hon- 
orable to  persecute  a  girl  with  your  attentions  at  one 
time,  and  at  another  to  carelessly  fling  her  off." 

"  I  have  done  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other," 
cried  Roger,  roused  to  an  outburst  of  indignation, 
"  nor  has  any  one  a  right  to  say  so.  I  have  the  great- 
est respect  for  Miss  Travers,  and  always  have  had. 
And  if  any  one  but  you,  sir,  ventured  to  speak  so  of 
a  lady  whom  —  of  a  —  of  a  girl  who  "  — 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  finish  your  sentence  for  you  ? 
—  of  a  lady  whom  you  once  admired  very  much,  and 
who  is  the  best  match  in  the  country  ;  of  a  girl  who 
would  make  a  capital  mistress  to  Melcombe,  and  com- 
plete the  estate  in  the  most  satisfactory  way,  so  that 
the  family  would  be  the  better  of  it  for  generations. 
I  tell  you  what,  Roger,"  said  Mr.  Mitford,  relaxing, 
— "  for  a  quarrel  between  you  and  me  can  lead  to 
nothing  agreeable,  —  the  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  get 
the  Black  Knight  out  to-morrow,  and  ride  over  to  see 
her.  She  will  be  quite  willing  to  believe  that  you 
prefer  getting  her  all  by  herself,  for  the  aunt,  of 
course,  does  n't  count ;  you  can  easily  elude  the  aunt. 
Do  this,  like  a  good  fellow,  and  I  '11  be  content." 


54  THE  SECOND  SON. 

Edmund's  eyes  conveyed  a  dozen  messages  while 
this  was  being  said,  but  how  could  his  brother  receive 
them,  having  turned  again  his  shoulder  to  the  light? 
No  answer  came  for  some  time  out  of  the  shadow. 
Perhaps  the  young  man  was  struggling  with  himself  ; 
perhaps  it  was  only  reluctance  to  reply,  to  meet  the 
softened  tone  with  another  contradiction.  At  last  he 
said  abruptly,  "  I  am  sorry  —  I  can't  go  to-morrow.  I 
am  —  otherwise  engaged." 

"  Engaged  !  I  should  like  to  know  what  that  means," 
said  the  father  sharply. 

"  I  've  got  something  else  to  do,"  said  Roger.  "  I  've 
—  various  things  to  do.  I  've  —  a  number  of  letters 
to  write.  I  can't  possibly  spare  to-morrow.  It  would 
throw  everything  into  arrears." 

"  Well,"  said  the  father,  persistently  amiable,  "  if 
not  to-morrow,  let  us  say  next  day,  or  Thursday,  —  at 
all  events,  a  day  this  week." 

"  I  shall  be  busy  all  this  week,"  Roger  said,  in  a 
sullen  tone  recognizable  by  both  father  and  brother. 
They  knew  his  under  lip  had  set  firm,  and  the  some- 
what too  long  upper  one  had  closed  down  upon  it  like 
a  vise.  Edmund,  looking  at  him  fixedly,  in  the  hope 
that  he  might  glance  up  and  take  counsel  from  his 
warning  eyes,  afforded  a  means  to  the  Squire  of  giv- 
ing vent  to  his  renewed  wrath. 

"  What  is  all  that  telegraphing  about  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Ned,  you  had  better  mind  your  own  business.  You 
want  to  advise  your  brother  to  be  prudent,  not  to  try 
my  patience  too  far.  Let  him  alone ;  he  had  better 
be  honest  and  let  me  know  exactly  what  he  means, 
since  we  're  on  the  question.  If  he  means  to  defeat 
me  in  my  first  wish,  let  him  say  so,  and  then  we  can 
fight  fair." 


AFTER   DINNER.  55 

"  Roger  means  nothing  of  the  kind,  sir,"  said  Ed- 
mund, "  though  he  may  be  driven  to  say  so,  if  you 
press  him  so  hard.  Good  heavens,  what  is  the  use  of 
talking  of  what  a  man  means  !  You  know  very  well 
that  iu  most  cases  we  mean  nothing  but  just  what  hap- 
pens to  hit  our  fancy  for  the  moment.  To  defeat 
you,  no !  I  '11  be  bound  for  him  that  is  not  what  he 
means." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Ned,"  said  Mr.  Mitford. 
"  That 's  all  very  well  for  boys  and  women.  I  expect 
I  'm  talking  to  a  man  when  I  talk  to  my  eldest  son. 
How  old  is  he  ?  Three  and  thirty,  if  he  's  a  day.  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  's  an  age  at  which  a  fellow 
can  go  on  philandering  as  if  he  were  still  a  boy  ?  " 

"  I  'd  rather,  if  it  is  the  same  to  you,"  said  Roger, 
again  suddenly  shifting  his  position,  arid  revealing  a 
face  very  white  and  obstinate,  with  a  fiery  glow  under 
the  lowered  eyelids,  "  that  we  discussed  this  matter, 
father,  you  and  I,  instead  of  having  it  talked  over  like 
this.  Ned  means  very  well,  and  would  be  kind  if  he 
could,  but  he  does  n't  always  understand."  After  re- 
ceiving this  redding  stroke,  which  is  inevitably  the 
recompense  of  the  third  party,  Edmund  drew  back  a 
little,  involuntarily,  from  the  table,  pushing  his  chair 
out  of  the  circle  of  the  lamplight.  The  two  faces 
which  were  within  that  round  of  light  stood  out  like 
those  of  actors  upon  the  intimate  stage  of  private  life, 
which  is  so  much  more  exciting  than  any  play. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Squire,  "  that 's  what  I  say. 
Let  us  have  it  all  honest  and  above  board.  You  know 
well  enough  what  I  want.  I  want  the  Biglow  estate 
added  on  to  Melcombe,  which  is  all  for  your  own 
advantage,  not  mine.  It  would  not  do  me  any  good 
if  it  were  done  to-morrow.  And  I  want  a  woman  that 


56  THE   SECOND  SON. 

will  be  a  credit  to  us,  that  can  take  the  head  of  the 
table,  as  your  mother  did,  and  make  a  fit  mistress  of 
a  family  like  ours.  The  first  pretty  girl  that  turns  up 
is  not  what  I  want,  Roger.  You  're  old  enough  to 
know  what 's  what,  and  not  to  be  run  away  with  by 
any  childish  fancy.  All  these  things  I  find  in  Lizzy 
Travers.  She  's  a  fine,  handsome  creature,  she  's  a 
woman  of  sense,  and  she  has  got  plenty  of  money  and 
just  the  land  that  is  wanted  to  round  off  our  own. 
You  looked  as  if  you  thought  so,  too,  a  little  while  ago. 
Why,  in  the  name  of  all  that 's  idiotic,  do  you  call  off 
now,  and  disappoint  her  (as  I  've  no  doubt  you  're 
doing),  and  defy  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Mitford  warmed  as  he  went  on  ;  the  enumera- 
tion of  all  Elizabeth's  advantages  fired  his  blood,  and 
the  thought  that  for  some  whim,  some  caprice  un- 
worthy of  a  man,  some  change  of  liking,  all  these  ad- 
vantages might  be  thrown  away,  was  intolerable  to 
him.  He  could  not  but  feel  that  his  son  must  be  actu- 
ated by  something  more  than  mere  perversity,  —  by 
an  uudutiful  impulse  to  go  against  him  and  thwart  his 
designs,  which  were  so  clearly  for  the  benefit  of  the 
family.  That  sons  did  so  out  of  mere  rebellion,  and 
injured  themselves  to  spite  their  father,  without  any 
other  motive,  Mr.  Mitford  thought  he  knew  well.  It 
was  one  of  their  leading  impulses,  he  was  convinced. 

The  contrast  between  this  superficial  wrath  and  flow 
of  opposition  on  one  side  and  the  passion  in  Roger's 
face  was  wonderful.  He  was  quite  pale ;  his  eyelids 
half  drawn  over  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  drawn  in,  his 
lips  set  tight.  No  petulance  of  contradiction  such  as 
his  father  believed  in,  but  a  force  of  emotion  which 
was  full  of  tragic  elements,  was  in  his  face.  He 
cleared  his  throat  two  or  three  times  before  he  could 


AFTER   DINNER.  57 

get  possession  of  his  voice.  "  In  the  first  place,"  he 
said,  "  Miss  Travers's  name  must  be  put  out  of  the 
discussion  once  for  all.  We  were  never  more  than 
good  friends,  she  and  I.  Stop  a  little  "  (for  Mr.  Mit- 
fortl  had  given  vent  to  a  snort  of  contempt  and  the 
scornful  exclamation  "  Friends  !  ").  "  You  have  no 
right,  and  I  have  no  right,  to  speculate  upon  what  she 
thinks.  A  woman's  mind  is  her  own,  I  hope,  as  well 
as  a  man's.  That 's  only  a  small  part  of  the  question, 
sir,  I  allow  ;  the  question  is  between  you  and  me.  If 
I  proposed  to  a  lady  and  she  rejected  me,  I  suppose 
you  would  not  say  that  was  my  fault." 

"  But  I  should,  sir,"  retorted  his  father ;  "  certainly 
I  should,  in  this  case.  I  should  say  it  was  your  shame- 
ful shilly-shally,  your  would  and  your  would  n't,  your 
reluctance  to  come  to  the  point,  that  had  disgusted  the 
girl,  and  with  good  reason  ;  only  somehow  I  have  faith 
in  her,  and  I  don't  think  it  has." 

Roger  glared  at  his  father  with  what  he  thought 
was  indignation  on  Elizabeth's  account.  "  I  refuse  to 
bring  in  her  name.  She  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
question,"  he  cried.  "The  question  is  between  you 
and  me,  sir,  and  nobody  else  has  anything  to  do  with 
it.  I  never  had  any  such  intention  as  you  give  me 
credit  for;  but  even  if  I  once  had,  as  you  think,  I 
have  n't  now.  I  don't  want  to  bind  myself.  I  've  — 
no  desire  to  marry,"  Roger  said.  He  made  a  slight 
pause  before  he  said  these  words,  and  plunged  a 
sudden  glance  into  the  shade  where  Edmund  sat,  as 
if  challenging  him  to  interfere ;  and  a  sudden  flush 
of  color  rose  on  his  own  face.  He  added,  hastily,  "  I 
hope  you  don't  think  I  'm  capable  of  changing  my 
mind  to  annoy  you.  I  cannot  deny  such  an  accusa- 
tion, because  it 's  incredible.  You  can't  think  so 


58  THE   SECOND  SON. 

badly  of  me,  even  if  in  the  heat  of  the  moment  you 
say  it.  But  if  my  mind  ever  inclined  towards  that, 
which  it  did  n't,  at  least  it  does  not  now." 

"And  you  think  that's  a  reason,"  cried  Mr.  Mit- 
ford.  "  By  Jove !  You  ought  to  think  a  little, 
Roger,  what 's  your  raison  d'etre.  You  Ve  no  profes- 
sion, you  never  do  anything,  you  're  the  eldest  son. 
Just  because  it  is  unnecessary  for  you  to  work  for 
your  living,  being  the  eldest  son,  it 's  your  business  to 
attend  to  this.  You  may  call  me  brutal,  if  you  like  ; 
perhaps  it 's  brutal,  but  it 's  true.  This  is  your  share 
of  the  duty.  If  you  don't  do  it "  —  Mr.  Mitford 
got  up  from  his  chair  almost  violently,  pushing  it 
away  from  the  table.  Then  he  paused,  and  looked  at 
his  son  from  the  vantage  ground  of  his  height  and 
attitude.  "  Whether  it 's  from  mere  caprice,  whether 
it 's  for  other  reasons,"  —  and  here,  to  Roger's  troub- 
led ear,  his  voice  sounded  full  of  meaning,  —  "  what- 
ever is  the  cause,  you  had  better  look  to  it,  my  boy. 
Though  you  're  the  eldest  son "  —  said  the  Squire, 
turning  away,  "  please  to  remember  that  in  our  family 
there 's  no  eldest  son,  so  to  speak,  further  than  a 
parent  may  please." 

He  went  away  as  he  spoke,  bursting  through  the 
door  which  opened  into  the  drawing-room.  Though 
he  had  avoided  that  way  of  reaching  his  own  special 
retirement  since  little  Nina  had  taken  up  her  abode  in 
it,  his  excitement  was  so  great  that  he  forgot  his  usual 
habit  to-night,  and  a  scream  from  Nina,  faintly  heard 
in  the  noisy  shutting  of  the  door,  testified  to  her  won- 
der rather  than  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  the  unexpected 
figure  pushing  through  her  usually  silent  rooms.  His 
two  sons  sat  immovable  in  their  astonishment,  watch- 
ing this  stormy  exit.  It  was  but  recently  that  Mr. 


AFTER   DINNER.  59 

Mitford  had  permitted  himself  to  lose  his  temper,  and 
they  stared  at  each  other  with  looks  which  were  far 
from  comfortable.  The  Squire  in  their  younger  days 
had  been  very  decorous  ;  if  he  had  never  sought  the 
confidence  and  friendship  of  his  boys,  at  least  he  had 
seldom  repulsed  them,  and  never  threatened.  But 
lately  his  temper  had  become  worse,  and  on  this  occa- 
sion excitement  (or  was  it  policy?)  had  carried  him 
quite  out  of  himself.  They  heard  Nina's  frightened 
little  outcry,  then  a  quick  and  rather  angry  dialogue, 
and  then  the  shutting  of  the  distant  library  door, 
which  indicated  that  he  had  entered  his  own  room 
for  the  evening.  Roger  had  become  very  calm,  very 
silent,  in  the  midst  of  this  sensation.  "  What  do 
you  suppose  that  means  ?  "  he  said  at  last,  when  the 
echoes  of  the  alarmed  house  had  died  away.  "  I  did 
not  think  uiy  father  would  have  adopted  such  vulgar 
methods,"  he  said. 

"He  meant  nothing,"  said  Edmund,  in  his  usual 
role  of  peace-maker.  "  And  you  might  have  tempo- 
rized a  little.  You  could  not  have  been  forced  into 
matrimony  at  a  moment's  notice.  Why  not  yield  a 
little,  and  keep  the  peace?  " 

"  There  has  been  too  much  sacrificed  to  keeping  the 
peace."  Roger  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room,  his  figure  moving  up  and  down  like  a  shadow 
outside  the  circle  of  the  light.  "  I  can't  keep  it  up," 
he  cried.  "  I  cannot  go  on  like  this.  The  best  thing 
for  me,  if  I  could  but  do  it,  would  be  to  go  away." 

"  And  why  not  ?  Why  not  go  to  town  for  a  month 
or  two  ?  There 's  nothing  tragical  about  that,  no 
grand  decision  involved.  Go  up  for  the  season,  and 
cut  this  knot,  whatever  it  is." 


60  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  You  speak  at  your  ease,"  said  the  elder  brother, 
looking  out  of  the  shadow  at  Edmund's  thoughtful 
face,  in  which  there  was  no  struggle,  only  a  shade  of 
sympathy  and  anxiety.  Roger  was  torn  by  sensa- 
tions very  different,  —  by  passion  contending  with  all 
the  restraints  of  life,  and  thought,  and  better  judg- 
ment. "  It  is  an  easy  matter  for  you,"  he  repeated, 
with  a  certain  bitterness ;  "  to  settle  other  people's 
affairs  is  always  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world." 

"I  don't  even  know  what  your  affairs  are,"  said  the 
other.  "  I  suggest  no  settling ;  take  a  moment's 
pause,  as  you  may  so  well  do.  No  one  can  have  a 
word  to  say,  if  you  start  off  for  town  now.  It  is  the 
moment  when  everybody  is  going.  And  whatever 
there  may  be  to  decide,  get  it  at  arm's  length,  get  it 
in  perspective,"  Edmund  said. 

Roger  stared  at  him  almost  fiercely  for  an  instant, 
then  came  back  and  flung  himself  down  again  in  his 
chair.  "Don't  insult  a  man  with  your  artist's  jargon," 
he  said ;  then  changing  his  tone  in  a  moment,  "  That 's 
just  what  I  do,  Ned,  —  that's  just  what  I  do  —  too 
much.  I  can't  get  any  natural  action  out  of  myself 
for  that.  My  father  thinks  I  mean  to  cross  him.  I 
don't.  I  see  the  sense  of  all  he  or  you  can  say,  though 
you  drove  me  mad  with  your  talk  about  what  was 
suitable.  I  know  it  well  enough.  He  's  right,  and 
you  are  right,  and  nobody  knows  so  well  as  I  do  all 
the  trouble  that 's  in  it,  or  how  good  it  would  be  to 
take  the  other  way.  But "  — said  Roger,  staring  into 
the  white  heat  of  the  lamp,  with  eyes  that  were  full 
of  glowing  fire  —  "  but "  - 

Edmund  stretched  across  the  table,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  his  brother's  arm.  There  are  moments  when 


AFTER   DINNER.  61 

the  most  sympathetic  can  do  nothing,  can  say  nothing, 
that  may  not  turn  to  exasperation  instead  of  solace. 
The  touch  was  all  he  could  venture  on.  Already 
both  had  forgotten  the  father's  threat,  if  threat  it 


VI. 

NINA. 

THE  drawing-room  at  Melcombe  had  a  succession 
of  window  recesses,  or  rather  projections  built  out 
from  the  level  of  the  room,  like  little  porticoes  in- 
closed with  walls,  where  all  the  brightness  of  the  sun- 
shine concentrated,  and  where  a  silent  little  reader  or 
thinker  might  rest  unseen,  whoever  went  or  came.  It 
was  in  one  of  these  that  Edmund  found  his  sister  the 
next  morning.  She  had  appropriated  the  little  nook, 
which  was  oblong,  with  an  opening  opposite  the  great 
window  like  a  doorway  into  the  drawing-room.  On 
the  cushioned  seat  which  ran  all  around  Nina  had 
accumulated  her  treasures.  She  had  a  work-basket 
full  of  bright-colored  wools  and  silks,  always  in  dis- 
order, and  pieces  of  work  at  which  she  sometimes 
labored  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time.  She  had  a  few 
books  scattered  upon  the  seat :  a  novel  always  in 
course  of  reading ;  a  book  of  poetry,  about  which  she 
was  not  very  particular  so  long  as  it  was  verse ;  and  a 
volume  of  that  vague  morality  and  philosophy  beaten 
down  into  a  sugared  pulp,  which  has  at  all  times  been 
thought  the  right  thing  for  young  ladies.  It  need 
scarcely  be  said  that  the  little  girl  never  opened  it, 
but  it  represented  the  higher  literature  to  her  unso- 
phisticated soul.  She  had  what  she  called  her  "draw- 
ing things  "  upon  the  table  beside  her,  so  that  in  case 
an  inspiration  moved  she  might  fly  to  her  pencil,  like 


NINA.  63 

a  heroine  in  an  old-fashioned  novel,  without  loss  of 
time.  She  never  did  so,  but  what  did  that  matter? 
An  old  guitar,  which  Nina  had  found  in  a  lumber- 
room,  hung  by  a  faded  ribbon  from  the  wall,  so  that 
she  might  equally  soothe  her  mind  with  that,  if  any 
sudden  pressure  of  affairs  suggested  music  as  the  nat- 
ural relief  to  an  overburdened  soul.  To  be  sure,  Nina 
did  not  know  how  to  play,  but  that  made  no  difference. 
Had  the  necessity  existed,  no  doubt  the  knowledge 
would  have  come.  On  the  whole,  the  little  thing 
pleased  herself  much  with  these  simple  preparations 
for  every  emergency,  and  as  no  emergency  occurred 
read  her  novel  in  peace,  or  when  there  was  any  bazaar 
in  prospect,  for  which  her  married  sisters  claimed  her 
aid,  would  seize  her  crewels  and  work  for  a  whole 
twenty  minutes.  She  led  a  very  useless  life,  much 
unlike  the  present  habits  of  high-minded  girls.  She 
had  nothing  to  do,  and  did  nothing.  She  learned 
nothing.  She  did  not  improve  her  mind.  She  had 
no  part  in  the  operations  of  the  household.  In  short, 
she  existed  only  like  one  of  the  flowers  in  the  garden. 
She  loved  the  guitar,  which  she  called  a  lute,  and  the 
drawing  things,  and  the  poetry  book,  and  the  crewels, 
which  she  called  embroidery.  These  were  all  acces- 
sories to  the  little  part  she  had  to  play :  but  her  novels 
were  old-fashioned,  and  so  was  her  ideal,  and  she  did 
not  know  that  any  more  was  intended  in  the  consti- 
tution of  a  little  girl  belonging  to  a  county  family. 
Geraldine  and  the  rest  had  married,  that  was  true, 
and  entered  upon  another  kind  of  existence,  which 
Nina  supposed,  some  time  or  other,  she  too  would 
have  to  do.  But  she  did  not  speculate  on  that  change, 
it  was  not  within  the  range  of  any  near  possibilities, 
and  the  little  mind  did  not  require  the  stimulus  of 


64  THE   SECOND  SON. 

any  such  subject  for  dreams.  Lily  Ford,  in  her  room 
which  opened  on  the  garden,  dreamed  all  day  long,  — 
dreamed  with  passion,  inventing  for  her  future  end- 
less pleasures,  splendors,  and  delights ;  but  Nina,  in 
her  window-seat,  was  quite  quiescent,  pleased  with  the 
days  as  they  came.  To  be  sure,  Lily  was  the  elder 
by  three  years,  and  her  position  was  not  the  assured 
and  simple  one  held  by  the  little  lady  at  the  Hall. 

"  Oh,  you  are  here,  Nina,"  said  Edmund,  coming 
in.  He  placed  himself  in  the  basket-chair,  which, 
though  it  was  well  cushioned,  always  creaked,  and 
disturbed  Nina's  quiet.  "  I  thought  you  might  be 
out,  as  it  is  such  a  fine  morning.  You  don't  go  out 
half  enough." 

"  I  have  no  one  to  go  with,  Edmund.  It  is  rather 
dull  always  going  out  alone." 

"  So  it  is.  If  you  would  only  be  a  little  bolder, 
Nina,  and  get  upon  a  horse,  you  could  ride  with 
Roger  or  me.  One  of  us  would  always  be  glad  to 
go." 

This  was  one  of  the  little  habitual  things  which 
Nina  knew  were  said  without  much  meaning.  Oh, 
yes,  no  doubt  Edmund  meant  them  when  he  said 
them.  But  his  sister  was  too  shy  to  keep  him  to  his 
word.  She  was  not  so  timid  as  was  supposed,  and 
had  got,  if  not  upon  a  horse,  yet  upon  a  pony,  many 
times  with  impunity,  and  ridden  soberly  about  the 
park.  But  the  idea  that  Nina  was  not  bold  enough 
to  ride  had  always  been  kept  up.  Though  she  was 
so  simple,  she  quite  understood  this  little  fiction,  and 
that  it  was  not  at  all  in  her  role  to  call  upon  her 
brothers  to  go  out  with  her ;  for  little  persons  like 
Nina,  with  all  their  innocence,  often  know  things 
which  they  are  not  supposed  to  know. 


NINA.  65 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Edmund,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  quite  happy  here.  I  ain  at  a  very  interesting  bit 
in  my  book.  I  am  not  quite  sure,  but  I  almost  think 
that  Ethelbert  is  going  to  turn  out  Lord  Wilfrid's 
son,  which  would  quite  explain  the  sympathy  that 
Emily  felt  for  him  the  first  time  she  saw  him.  It  is 
the  most  interesting  book"  — 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  I  went  away,  and  let 
you  unravel  the  mystery,"  Edmund  said. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  oh,  dear,  no  !  "  exclaimed  Nina,  putting 
down  the  volume  upon  its  face.  "  I  would  a  thou- 
sand times  rather  talk  to  you.  And  there  's  some- 
thing I  want  to  ask  you,  Edmund.  What  was  papa 
so  angry  about  last  night?" 

"  Last  night  ?  Oh,  it  was  nothing,  my  dear.  One 
of  us  displeased  him.  Either  Roger  or  I  said  some- 
thing that  brought  on  a  discussion ;  nothing  you  need 
trouble  your  little  head  about." 

"  But  I  do  trouble  my  head.  How  can  I  help  it  ? 
I  know  it  was  Roger,  and  not  you.  I  heard  loud 
voices,  sounding  quite  angry,  and  then  I  went  and  sat 
close  to  the  door." 

"  Do  you  think  that  was  quite  right,  Nina  ?  It  is 
not  the  thing  for  a  lady  to  do." 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  .listening  !  "  cried  Nina.  "  I  did 
not  look  through  the  key-hole,  or  anything  like  that. 
I  only  sat  near  the  door.  And  then  I  heard  papa 
scolding,  —  oh,  scolding !  worse  than  he  ever  did, 
even  at  Geraldine.  I  could  n't  help  hearing.  Then 
he  bounced  in  when  I  was  sitting  there,  never  expect- 
ing it.  What  made  him  come  through  the  drawing- 
room  last  night  ?  I  started  up  as  if  I  had  been  shot, 
and  then  he  —  said  something  disagreeable  to  me." 

"I   am   afraid   you   deserved   it   this   time,"  said 


66  THE  SECOND  SON. 

Edmund,  shaking  his  head.  "You  should  not  sit 
near  the  door ;  you  might  hear  something  that  you 
were  not  intended  to  hear." 

"  Oh,  that  is  exactly  why  "  —  Then  she  stopped 
short,  in  confusion.  "  I  mean,"  she  said,  looking  as 
if  about  to  cry,  while  Edmund  continued  to  shake  his 
head,  "  that  I  never  know  anything  —  about  any- 
thing !  And  why  shouldn't  I  find  out,  if  I  can?  It 
is  so  dull  at  night,  sitting  all  by  one's  self  here." 

"  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that,"  said  Edmund  ; 
"  of  course  it  is  dull.  I  '11  make  a  point  of  coming 
in  and  sitting  with  you  in  the  future,  Nina,  if  you 
will  promise  not  to  sit  near  the  door." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  very  much,  Edmund,"  said  Nina. 
She  was  aware  that  this  promise  was  about  as  much 
to  be  depended  upon  as  that  of  riding  with  her,  if  she 
could  but  ride  ;  but  repression  had  taught  this  little 
creature  wisdom,  and  she  accepted  the  offer  as  a 
benevolent  form.  "  It  was  about  Roger  getting  mar- 
ried," she  said,  nodding  her  head  in  her  turn. 

"What  do  you  know  about  that?  You  must  not 
say  a  word  of  anything  of  the  kind.  Roger  is  not 
going  to  be  married." 

"  I  know,"  said  Nina.  "  I  think  I  know  more  than 
you  do,  or  papa  either,  but  I  am  sure  I  would  never 
tell." 

"  You  —  know  about  Roger  ?  Nonsense,  my  dear 
little  girl,  you  must  not  even  think  on  such  a  sub- 
ject. There  is  nothing  for  you  to  know." 

"  Oh,  but  there  is,"  said  Nina,  once  more  nodding 
her  head.  "  I  knew  first  from  what  Simmons  said. 
And  then  I  rode  round  by  the  West  Lodge,  and  there 
I  saw." 

"  I  thought  that  you  said  a  minute  ago  you  would 
never  tell." 


NINA.  67 

"Not  to  any  one  else,"  replied  the  girl,  "but  you 
and  I  are  just  the  same  as  himself,  Edmund.  I 
would  not  tell  papa  for  the  world.  Did  you  ever  see 
Lily  Ford  ?  I  think  she  is  beautiful.  There  are  not 
very  many  beautiful  people  like  women  in  books. 
Perhaps  she  is  not  quite  up  to  that,  but  she  is  the 
beautifulest  I  ever  saw." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,"  said  Edmund,  endeavoring  to  laugh 
the  revelations  off.  "  Prettier  than  Geraldine  ?  You 
could  n't  mean  that :  and  '  beautifulest '  is  not  a 
word."  • 

"  It  is  what  I  mean,"  said  Nina.  "  Geraldine  ?  Oh, 
Geraldine  !  — she  was  just  Geraldine,  nicer  than  any- 
body. It  did  not  matter  in  the  least  whether  she  was 
beautiful  or  not.  But  Lily  Ford  is  like  somebody  in 
a  book.  I  once  read  a  poem  about  a  beautiful  maiden 
in  a  garden,  don't  you  know  ?  She  is  like  that.  She 
walks  out  among  the  flowers,  and  she  never  goes  any- 
where else  except  to  church,  and  Mrs.  Simmons  says 
she  does  n't  know  what  her  parents  are  thinking  of ; 
and  then  they  always  say  something  about  Roger,  but 
they  don't  let  me  hear  what  they  say." 

"  You  hear  a  great  deal  too  much,  I  think,"  cried 
Edmund.  "  Nina,  you  ought  to  know  it  is  not  fit  for 
a  young  lady  to  listen  to  what  the  servants  say." 

"  Who  am  I  to  speak  to,  then  ?  "  asked  Nina,  the 
tears  rising  to  her  eyes.  "Am  I  never  to  hear  any- 
thing that  anybody  says  ?  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Edmund,  "  I  see  how  wrong 
we  have  all  been.  It  is  a  shame  that  you  should  be 
driven  to  that,  you  poor  little  girl  among  all  us  men. 
But  there  is  always  the  Rectory,  Nina,  when  you  're 
dull,"  he  hastily  said. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  at  all  dull.     I  like  home  the  best : 


68  THE  SECOND  SOX. 

but  I  can't  help  thinking  about  what  is  going  on.  I 
like  to  ride  past  the  West  Lodge,  the  garden  is  always 
so  pretty.  And  when  it  is  warm  you  can  look  in  at 
the  window  and  see  Lily  sitting  at  work.  I  believe 
she  's  making  some  things  for  me,"  the  girl  added, 
with  a  certain  sense  of  pride  and  proprietorship  in 
Lily.  "  Roger  is  there  almost  every  day." 

"  Nina !  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  go  on  with  these 
revelations.  All  this  information  is  quite  out  of  your 
way.  If  Roger  knew,  he  would  be  very  angry;  he 
would  think  you  were  watching  him." 

"  So  I  was,"  admitted  Nina  quietly,  "  more  or  less ; 
for  I  wanted  to  know.  When  you  hear  all  sorts  of 
things  said  of  your  brother,  and  especially  when  you 
see  that  they  don't  want  you  to  hear  what  they 
say"- 

"  You  must  be  removed  out  of  the  hands  of  those 
servants,"  said  Edmund.  "•  It  is  not  at  all  good  for 
you.  Don't  you  know  the  difference  between  edu- 
cated and  uneducated  people,  Nina?  You  have  no 
right  to  listen  to  them.  You  don't  hear  people  of  our 
own  class  "  — 

"  Oh,  Edmund  !  why,  everybody  does  it ;  not  about 
Roger  before  us,  but  about  others.  The  Tredgolds, 
and  even  Pax.  Pax  was  saying  the  other  day  that 
Amy  Tredgold  went  out  a  great  deal  too  much  when 
she  was  in  London,  and  that  our  Stephen  "  — 

"Don't  say  any  more,  please.  I  dare  say  we  all 
talk  about  our  neighbors  more  than  is  necessary.  But 
you  must  not  listen  to  the  servants.  As  for  Roger, 
he  would  be  very  angry.  You  must  know,  if  you 
heard  anything  at  the  door,  —  oh,  Nina !  —  that  this 
was  not  what  my  father  was  speaking  to  Roger 
about." 


NINA.  C9 

"  No,"  said  Nina,  after  a  pause,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  her  brother  as  if  there  might  be  a  great  deal 
more  to  say ;  but  though  her  eyes  were  eloquent  she 
spoke  no  further  word.  For  the  next  half  hour  or 
more  Edmund  kept  his  place,  and  made  conversation 
for  his  little  sister.  He  did  his  duty  manfully,  using 
every  endeavor  to  make  her  forget  the  subject  on 
which  she  had  herself  been  the  speaker.  He  told  her 
about  the  books  he  had  been  reading,  giving  her  at 
considerable  length  the  plot  of  a -new  novel,  with  a 
description  of  the  leading  characters  and  their  actions. 
He  told  her  about  some  discoveries  in  which  the  fairy 
tales  of  science,  the  beautiful  part  of  research,  came 
in  as  they  do  not  always  come  in,  even  in  its  most 
beneficent  spheres.  He  told  her  about  the  last  great 
traveler  who  had  made  a  track  across  the  black  conti- 
nent. To  all  of  which  Nina  responded  with  a  little 
swift  interrogative  Yes  ?  with  a  No !  of  wonder,  with 
the  milder  Indeeds,  and  Oh,  Edmunds,  of  attention. 
She  gave  him  her  ear  devoutly  for  one  thing  as  much 
as  the  other,  and  laughed,  and  clasped  her  hands,  and 
looked  astonished  and  dismayed,  just  when  it  was  right 
for  her  to  show  these  sentiments.  But  when  at  last 
he  got  up  and  left  her,  Edmund  was  by  no  means  sure 
that  Nina  had  not  seen  through  him  all  the  time,  that 
she  had  not  been  quite  aware  of  bis  purpose,  and 
laughing  in  her  little  sleeve  at  his  attempts  to  beguile 
her.  He  thought  to  himself,  as  he  went  away,  consid- 
erably exhausted  with  his  exertions  and  with  the  un- 
certainty of  having  at  all  succeeded  in  them,  that  he 
would  never  undervalue  little  Nina's  intelligence  again. 
What  she  had  told  him  was  not  new  to  him.  He  had 
known  very  well  where  Roger  was  going  when  he 
turned  along;  the  west  road  from  the  station.  He  had 


70  THE   SECOND   SON. 

understood  what  his  brother  meant  when  he  betrayed 
the  uneasiness  of  his  troublous  passion  in  talk  which 
pretended  to  be  abstract.  But  Nina's  little  matter-of- 
fact  story,  her  glimpses  into  the  conclusions  of  the 
servants,  added  a  pang  of  reality  to  the  visionary  pic- 
ture which  Edmund  had  made  to  himself.  As  it  was 
in  Edmund's  fancy,  it  might  have  gone  on  for  months 
or  years  before  coming  to  any  crisis ;  but  in  a  mo- 
ment, by  the  illumination  of  all  these  sharp  little  com- 
monplace lights,  he  saw  how  immediate  and  how  urgent 
the  danger  was.  There  had  been  in  Edmund's  mind 
a  lingering  incredulity,  the  conviction  of  a  man  in  his 
sound  senses  that  love,  in  the  gravest  sense  of  the 
word,  for  the  keeper's  daughter  was  after  all  an  im- 
possibility ;  that  it  was  a  freak  of  fancy  rather  than  a 
serious  passion  which  had  occupied  his  brother.  How 
in  Ford's  cottage,  within  the  ken  of  the  father  and 
mother,  amid  all  the  homely  circumstances  of  their 
life,  Roger  should  have  been  so  fatally  enthralled  it 
seemed  impossible  to  conceive ;  and  by  Lily  Ford,  the 
little  half -educated,  conventional  enchantress,  with  all 
the  sentimentalities  of  her  boarding-school  about  her, 
her  artificial  superiority,  her  little  romantic  graces ! 
If  she  had  been  an  unconscious,  dutiful,  rustic  maiden, 
helpful  and  sweet,  Edmund  thought  he  could  have 
understood  it  better.  But  for  a  man  who  had  known 
and  liked,  if  not  loved,  Elizabeth  Travers,  who  had 
owed  something  of  his  development  to  Pax,  —  that 
he  should  throw  his  life  away  for  Lily  Ford !  The 
wonder  of  it  took  away  Edmund's  breath ;  yet  he  had 
no  resource  but  to  believe  it  now. 

And  what  was  worst  of  all  was  that  he  could  think 
of  no  way  of  helping  Roger.  His  father's  threats,  his 
insistence  in  respect  to  that  other  matter  so  plainly 


NINA.  71 

impossible,  the  mere  suggestion  of  which  was  an  insult 
and  injury  to  the  lady,  —  so  much  too  good,  Edmund 
said  to  himself  indignantly,  for  any  one*  of  them  at 
their  best,  —  would  of  course  throw  Roger  more  and 
more  into  his  fatal  entanglement,  and  make  all  deliv- 
erance hopeless.  And  there  seemed  nothing  that  any 
one  could  do.  Remonstrance  was  futile  ;  the  time  for 
it  was  past ;  and  what  advantage  could  there  be  in 
pointing  out  the  frightful  drawbacks,  the  miseries  in- 
volved in  such  a  connection  to  the  unfortunate  who 
saw  them  all,  and  yet  could  not  resist  the  infatuation 
which  was  stronger  than  reason  ?  It  was  not  thus, 
perhaps,  that  Edmund  would  have  regarded  a  love 
which  was  superior  to  all  obstacles,  had  it  not  ap- 
proached himself  so  nearly.  Pie  realized  in  the  pres- 
ent case  with  a  heavy  force  of  fact,  more  telling  than 
imagination,  what  it  would  be  to  have  Lily  Ford  the 
mistress  of  his  father's  house. 

In  the  perplexity  of  his  mind  he  found  himself  fol- 
lowing instinctively  a  path  which  he  had  perhaps  trod 
oftener  than  any  other  during  the  whole  course  of  his 
life,  the  path  that  led  to  the  Rectory.  He  knew  that 
Pax  at  her  window  would  see  him  coming,  and  would 
divine  that  he  was  in  trouble,  and  that  his  errand  to 
her  was  the  selfish  one  of  unburdening  his  soul.  How 
often  had  he  unburdened  his  soul  to  Pax,  in  every 
kind  of  embarrassment  and  distress  !  —  even  when  the 
disturbing  element  was  herself,  when  he  had  so  loved 
her  in  her  full  maturity,  so  hotly  wanted  to  marry 
her,  so  insisted  that  the  obstacles  were  of  no  impor- 
tance !  He  still  loved  Pax  ;  but  the  thought  of  his 
boyish  projects  in  respect  to  her  sometimes  brought 
the  hot  color  to  his  face,  sometimes  overwhelmed  him 
with  a  desire  to  laugh.  It  had  become  ludicrous,  im- 


72  THE   SECOND  SON. 

possible,  as  no  doubt  it  had  been  always,  had  he  had 
eyes  to  see.  The  recollection  of  his  folly  came  strongly 
back  to  him'as  he  ran  up  the  familiar  stairs,  and  went 
in  unannounced,  with  a  little  tap  at  the  door.  Per- 
haps she  thought  of  it,  too,  as  she  turned  half  round 
to  greet  him,  holding  out  her  hand  with  a  "  Well,  Ed- 
mund !  "  looking  at  him  in  the  tall,  narrow  mirror 
which  stood  between  the  two  side  windows,  and  which 
was  always  the  medium  through  which  she  contem- 
plated her  intimate  visitors.  Pax  was  of  opinion  that 
she  understood  people  better  when  she  first  saw  their 
faces  and  unconscious  expression  in  this  old-fashioned 
greenish  glass. 

"  Well ! "  he  said,  throwing  himself  down  upon  a 
chair  opposite  to  her.  "  I  'in  out  of  heart  and  out  of 
humor,  and  as  usual  I  Ve  come  to  you  to  be  con- 
soled." 

"  That 's  quite  natural,"  said  Pax.  "  What  is  it 
about?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  —  everything,"  cried  the  young 
man.  And  then  he  took  up  a  piece  of  work  which  lay 
on  the  table,  and  began  to  examine  it  gravely,  as  if 
he  knew  all  about  it.  And  so,  indeed,  he  did  ;  for 
Pax  kept  a  piece  of  work  by  her,  for  state  occasions, 
for  the  afternoon  when  people  called,  which  made 
slow  progress,  and  had  no  connection  with  the  big 
work-basket,  always  overflowing,  which  stood  on  the 
other  side  of  her  chair.  "  You  were  at  this  leaf,  or 
thereabouts,  last  time  I  was  on  the  verge  of  suicide," 
he  said,  with  a  laugh. 

"  And  I  shall  be  at  another  leaf  next  time,"  Pax 
answered  calmly.  "  There  is  just  enough  of  the  pat- 
tern to  keep  me  going  till  I  deliver  you  over  into  the 
hands  of  your  wife." 


AV.v.-i.  73 

"  My  wife !     I  shall  never  have  one,  Pax." 

"  Not  till  you  are  married,"  said  Miss  Lemesurier. 
"  But  I  don't  suppose  that  is  what  troubles  you  now." 

lie  made  no  answer  for  some  time,  and  then  he 
burst  forth  suddenly,  "  I  don't  think  it 's  good  for 
Nina  to  be  all  alone  as  she  is.  That  little  thing  is 
far  sharper  than  any  of  us  think." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Pax,  "  that  you  have  found  that 
out." 

"  She  ought  not  to  be  left  to  the  servants,  to  pick 
up  the  gossip  of  the  house." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  said  Pax,  "  that  you  have  found 
that  out.  I  hope  your  father  sees  it,  too." 

"  Oh,  my  father  !  "  Edmund  said  impatiently  :  with 
an  angry  sense  that  however  Roger  might  err,  the 
Squire  surely  ought  to  have  known  better,  if  anybody 
should. 

"  And  I  don't  see  how  it  is  to  be  remedied  unless 
one  of  you  were  to  marry." 

"To  marry!"  Edmund  exclaimed  again:  and  there 
suddenly  gleamed  upon  him  another  vision  of  Lily 
Ford  in  the  chief  place  at  home,  training,  restraining, 
his  little  sister.  A  flush  of  angry  color  came  over  his 
face.  "  You  are  very  keen  upon  marriages,"  he  cried, 
with  an  instinctive  endeavor  to  give  a  prick  in  return. 
"  You  used  not  to  be  so,  if  I  remember  right." 

Pax  looked  into  the  mirror,  and  saw  herself  seated 
there,  mature  and  motherly,  while  the  young  man, 
flung  into  his  chair  in  languor  and  discontent,  sat 
gloomy  before  her.  She  uttered  an  involuntary 
thanksgiving  within  herself.  If  I  had  been  such  a 
fool !  she  thought,  and  thanked  Heaven  :  then  spoke 
sedately.  "  For  right  marriages  always,  —  for  wrong 
never,"  she  .said,  with  emphasis.  "Come,  I  know 
that 's  what  you  are  upset  about." 


74  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  be  upset,"  he  said.  "  I  sup- 
pose I  've  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Am  I  ray  brother's 
keeper?  Probably  he  is  better  able  to  judge  than  I 
am  —  and  I  'm  a  meddling  fool  to  think  I  could  in- 
terfere." 

Pax  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  seriously, 
but  she  did  not  help  him  out :  and  he  sat  pulling  her 
work  about,  snipping  at  stray  threads  as  if  that  had 
been  the  most  important  occupation  in  the  world ; 
then  he  suddenly  tossed  it  from  him,  nearly  overturn- 
ing the  light  table. 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  he  cried  angrily,  "  that 
you  would  have  known  all  about  it.  Here  is  one  of 
the  storms  that  are  periodical  in  our  house,  —  my 
father  raging,  and  Roger  going  to  —  the  devil." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Pax,  "  not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  What  do  you  call  not  so  bad  ?  He  might  be 
more  bad  and  do  less  harm.  Imagine  Lily  Ford  at 
Melcombe,  the  lady  of  the  house !  " 

"  Has  it  gone  so  far  ?  "  said  Pax,  in  a  tone  of  alarm. 
"  You  ought  not  to  speak  so  to  me,  Edmund,  about 
less  harm :  but  still  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  can't 
think  it 's  so  bad  as  that." 

"  Can  you  think  of  my  brother,  then,  as  a  scoun- 
drel ?  "  cried  the  young  man,  changing  his  view  in  a 
moment,  as  the  caprice  of  his  troubled  mind  sug- 
gested. Then  he  came  to  his  senses  in  the  relief  of 
having  thus  disburdened  himself.  "  I  fear,"  he  said, 
"  it  has  gone  as  far  as  that.  I  don't  see  what  else 
can  come.  Roger  is  not  a  fellow  to  —  he  is  not  a 
man  that  could —  You  know  what  I  mean,  Pax. 
He  is  too  good,  and  too  tender-hearted,  and  too  hon- 
orable. He  could  neither  deceive  a  woman  nor  de- 
sert her,  even  if  he  wanted  to." 


NINA.  75 

"  Does  he  want  to  ?  "  Pax  paused  a  moment,  not 
expecting  any  answer  to  her  question  ;  then  she  said 
slowly,  "  There  is  still  one  way  out  of  it :  there  is  the 
girl  herself." 

"  The  girl  herself !  "  Edmund  cried,  with  unmeas- 
ured astonishment  and  almost  contempt. 

"  She  is  in  a  very  artificial  position ;  but  she  is  a 
natural,  silly  little  thing,  with  a  will  of  her  own  ; 
when  that  is  the  case  there  is  never  any  telling,"  Pax 
in  her  wisdom  said. 


VII. 

MOTHER   AND   DAUGHTER. 

ON  the  same  morning  a  consultation  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent kind  was  going  on  at  the  West  Lodge.  The 
scene  was  the  little  parlor  which  to  poor  Roger  had 
been  a  place  of  fatal  enchantment.  It  bore,  perhaps, 
a  different  aspect  in  the  morning,  but  it  is  doubtful 
if  any  circumstances,  even  the  chill  daylight  with  all 
its  revelations,  even  Mrs.  Ford  in  the  midst  of  her 
morning's  work,  with  all  the  common  accessories  of 
household  labor  about  her,  could  now  have  affected 
the  mind  of  the  lover.  Perhaps  if  at  the  first  he  had 
seen  the  mother  on  her  knees  "  doing "  the  grate, 
while  Lily  in  her  prettv  dress,  not  fit  even  to  be 
touched  by  those  grimy  fingers,  stood  by  and  looked 
on,  the  contrast  might  have  affected  his  imagination  ; 
but  who  could  tell  ?  He  might  have  found  it  only  an 
accentuation  of  the  wonder  how  out  of  so  homely  a 
soil  such  a  flower  could  have  grown.  To  the  chief 
actors  themselves  there  was  nothing  in  the  least  re- 
markable in  the  situation.  Mrs.  Ford  on  her  knees 
before  the  hearth,  with  a  brush  in  her  hands  and  the 
glow  of  exertion  on  her  face,  had  paused,  looking  up 
from  her  work  to  speak,  while  Lily  stood  by  in  the 
brown  velveteen  which  had  been  her  winter  dress,  and 
which,  to  do  her  justice,  she  had  made  herself,  with 
pretty  white  frills  round  the  hands  which  were  free 


MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  77 

from  any  trace  of  labor,  a  few  early  primroses  pinned 
upon  her  breast,  and  her  silky  hair  shining  in  the  sun. 
The  glass  door  was  open,  the  sunshine  streaming  in, 
the  garden  ablaze  with  those  crocuses  of  which  the 
keeper's  wife  had  boasted,  the  little  room  all  glorified 
by  the  light,  which,  however,  at  the  same  time  re- 
morselessly showed  those  poverties  of  over-decoration 
and  vulgarity  of  ornament  of  which  its  inmates  were 
unconscious.  Mrs.  Ford  was  making  an  appeal  which 
was  almost  impassioned,  and  which  suited  very  well 
with  her  attitude,  if  not  with  her  occupation  —  while 
Lily  listened  somewhat  impatient,  very  decided  in  her 
adverse  opinion,  pulling  the  threads  unconsciously  out 
of  a  scrap  of  linen  which  she  held  in  her  hands. 

''My  pet,"  said  Mrs.  Ford,  "it's  time  to  think 
serious,  if  ever  you  thought  serious  in  your  life.  I  'm 
dead  frightened,  and  that 's  the  truth.  I  've  always 
looked,  I  don't  deny  it,  for  a  'usband  for  you  as  could 
give  you  a  different  'ome  from  this.  We  've  done  our 
best,  your  father  and  me,  to  make  it  a  nice  'ouse. 
We  've  done  a  deal  for  you,  Lily,  though  may  be  you 
don't  see  it.  But  it 's  not  a  place  now  for  the  likes 
of  you,  brought  up  a  lady,  and  naturally  looking  for 
things  as  was  never  wanted  by  him  or  me.  Still  we  've 
done  a  deal  more  than  most  folks  approved  of  our 
doing ;  we  've  done  the  most  we  could." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Lily  impatiently,  "  what  is  the  use 
of  going  over  all  this  again,  mother  ?  I  never  said 
you  had  n't  been  awfully  good." 

" Well,  I  don't  mean  to  say  that"  resumed  Mrs. 
Ford,  drying  her  eyes  with  her  apron.  She  was  apt 
to  be  tearful  when  she  insisted  on  Lily's  excellences, 
or  humbly  put  forth  her  own  attempts  to  do  justice  to 
them.  "  But  we  've  done  what  we  could,  and  I  've 


78  THE  SECOND  SON. 

always  hoped  for  a  'usband  as  could  do  more,  and  that 
I  won't  deny." 

"Well,  mother!"  said  Lily  again. 

"  But,  dear,"  cried  the  keeper's  wife,  "  you  must  n't 
look  too  high  !  Oh,  Lily,  you  must  n't  look  too  high ! 
When  Mr.  Roger  first  came  here  I  was  a  bit  flattered ; 
that  I  don't  deny.  I  felt  as  if  it  was  a  great  compli- 
ment. Him  to  come  in  quite  friendly  like,  and  take  a 
chair,  and  talk  to  you  and  me.  It  was  not  as  if  it  had 
been  talking  to  your  father  about  them  things  as  men 
can  go  on  about  for  hours.  Senseless  things,  /  think, 
but  then,  that 's  their  way.  And  that  he  should  be 
taken  up  with  you  was  natural,  and  asking  questions, 
for  you  were  his  mother's  pet,  there  's  not  a  doubt  of 
that.  I  was  flattered  like,  I  won't  deny  it.  But  since 
Christmas  I  've  took  fright,  Lily.  I've  got  more  and 
more  frightened  every  day.  I  've  tried  my  best  to  say 
as  you  were  busy,  as  you  were  out,  —  any  excuse  I 
could  think  of." 

"  Thank  you,  mother." 

"  You  would  thank  me,  if  you  thought  a  bit.  Lily, 
you  don't  know  the  world ;  if  you  were  as  old  as  me, 
you  would  know  that  nothing  good  ever  comes  of  a 
gentleman  visiting  in  a  poor  'ouse.  He  may  mean  no 
harm,  and  she  may  mean  no  harm,  but  it  comes  to 
harm  in  spite  of  'em  both." 

"  Mother !  "  exclaimed  Lily,  with  great  indignation, 
"  how  dare  you  speak  like  that  to  me !  Harm !  Do 
you  think  I  'm  one  of  the  poor  creatures  that  forget 
themselves,  that  get  into  danger  and  trouble,  —  me ! 
If  you  think  that  of  me,  I  wonder  you  don't  turn  me 
out  of  your  house." 

"  Oh,  Lily  ! "  cried  the  anxious  mother.  She  gazed 
at  the  girl  for  a  moment  with  hands  uplifted,  then 


MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  79 

turned  round  hastily  and  addressed  herself  to  the  grate 
with  great  fervor  of  exertion,  making  her  brush  ring 
into  all  the  corners.  After  a  minute  or  two  of  this 
active  work  Mrs.  Ford  turned  round  again.  "You 
put  me  to  silence  and  you  put  me  to  shame,"  she  said, 
rising  from  her  knees.  "  You  've  got  learning  enough 
and  sense  enough  to  get  the  better  of  a  dozen  like  me, 
but  you  did  n't  ought  to,  Lily,  however  things  are  — 
for  I  'm  your  mother :  and  that 's  more  than  learning, 
or  foreign  languages,  or  playing  the  pianny,  —  ay,  or 
even  taking  views." 

"  Mother,  of  course  it  is,"  assented  the  girl.  "  I 
never  would  have  been  nasty  to  you  if  you  hadn't 
been  nasty  to  me,  supposing  for  a  moment  that  I  was 
like  one  of  the  victims  in  a  story-book,  and  that  harm 
of  that  description  could  ever  happen  to  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Ford  accepted  Lily's  kiss  with  a  tearful  smile. 
"  Hold  off  the  brush,"  she  said,  "  or  it  '11  make  a  mark 
on  you.  Oh,  Lily,  my  pet,  you  're  never  nasty  to  me, 
— only  I  'm  silly  about  you,  and  I  take  everything  to 
heart.  And  as  for  Mr.  Roger — no,  I  ain't  easy  in 
my  mind  about  Mr.  Roger.  I  can't  say  I  am,  for  it 
would  n't  be  true." 

"  Why,  what  could  Roger  do  ?  "  said  the  girl,  with 
a  triumphant  smile.  "  Nothing  but  what  I  like,  you 
may  be  sure." 

"That  may  be,  or  that  mayn't  be,"  replied  Mrs. 
Ford,  shaking  her  head  ;  "  but  what  I  'm  thinking  of 
is  his  father,  Lily.  His  father,  he  can  do  just  what 
he  pleases.  He  can  turn  us  out  of  this  house,  which 
is  the  nicest  I  ever  was  in  for  its  size,  and  where  I  'd 
like  to  end  my  days.  He  could  turn  your  father  out 
of  his  place.  He  can  hunt  us  all  out  of  the  parish, 
away  from  everybody  we  know.  Oh,  you  think  no- 


80  THE  SECOND   SOX. 

body  could  do  that  ?  But  you  're  mistaken,  Lily.  The 
Squire  can  do  whatever  he  wants  to  do.  It 's  awful 
power  for  one  man,  but  he  can.  I  have  heard  say  he 
can  leave  all  his  money  away  from  his  sons,  if  they 
don't  please  him,  and  that 's  what  frightens  me.  Oh, 
Lily,  Mr.  Roger,  he  's  too  grand ;  he 's  not  the  'usband 
I  'd  choose  for  you." 

"Too  grand,  —  nobody's  too  grand,"  said  the  girl; 
and  then  she  laughed.  "  For  that  matter,  your  favor- 
ite Mr.  Witherspoon  thinks  a  deal  more  of  the  differ- 
ence between  himself  and  the  keeper  than  Mr.  Roger 
does.  A  fine  scientific  gardener,  —  oh,  that 's  a  great 
deal  more  grand  than  the  young  Squire." 

"  Lily,  Lily !  there  you  are,  always  laughing  at  the 
steady  young  man  that  could  give  you  a  nice  home, 
and  furnish  it  nicely,  and  keep  a  servant,  and  every- 
thing. That's  what  would  please  me.  Better  than 
us,  but  not  so  much  better  that  he  would  throw  your 
father  and  mother  in  your  face,  with  a  good  trade  that 
he  could  carry  anywhere.  Oh,  that  is  the  kind  of  man 
for  me  !  All  the  masters  in  the  world  could  n't  frighten 
that  one,  they  could  n't  do  him  no  harm.  He  's  sure 
of  a  place  somewhere  else,  if  he  has  to  leave  here. 
Squire  may  fret  as  he  likes,  he  can't  do  no  harm  to 
him.  Oh,  Lily,  if  it  was  me"  — 

"  And  how  are  ye  the  day,  Miss  Lily?  and  did  ye 
like  the  sparrygrass  ? "  cried  the  girl,  with  an  imita- 
tion of  the  gardener's  Scotch.  "  Oh,  mother,  how  you 
can  like  that  man !  He  may  be  nice  enough,  and 
respectable  enough,  and  all  that,  but  he  is  not  a  gen- 
tleman," Ixly  said,  with  great  dignity,  drawing  herself 
up. 

"  And  that 's  what  I  like  him  for,"  replied  her 
mother. 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  81 

Lily  gave  Mrs.  Ford  a  look  of  mingled  indignation 
and  superiority.  "  I  shall  never  have  anything  to  say 
to  a  man  who  is  not  a  gentleman,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  goodness  gracious  me!  "  the  mother  cried. 

Neither  to  Mrs.  Ford's  exclamation  nor  to  her  atti- 
tude of  despair  did  Lily  pay  any  attention.  She  seated 
herself  at  the  table,  opened  a  little  fancy  box  in  which 
were  her  thimble  and  scissors,  and  drew  towards  her 
the  needlework  she  was  doing  for  Nina  at  Melcombe. 
It  was  a  work  which  went  011  slowly,  subject  to  many 
interruptions,  but  still  it  was  the  occupation  to  which 
she  sat  down  morning  after  morning,  when  the  grate 
was  done  and  the  fire  lit.  The  fire  was  now  blazing 
up  brightly,  and  everything  was  cheerful  within  and 
without :  the  crocuses  all  expanding  under  the  sun- 
shine, the  same  brightness  flooding  in  at  the  open  door, 
the  brisk  little  fire  modifying  what  sharpness  there 
still  might  linger  in  the  March  air.  The  only  shadow 
in  this  brilliant  little  spot  was  Mrs.  Ford,  standing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table,  with  her  black  brush  in 
one  hand  and  her  broom  in  the  other,  disconsolately 
leaning  upon  that  latter  implement,  and  looking  at  her 
daughter  with  troubled  eyes.  Lily  had  taken  her  seat 
opposite  the  window.  She  had  laid  out  a  pretty  mass 
of  white  muslin  and  lace  upon  the  table ;  her  graceful 
person,  her  shining  head,  the  flowers  on  her  bosom,  all 
harmonious  and  delightful,  made  the  picture  perfect. 
If  her  features  wanted  regularity,  who  could  pause 
upon  that  point,  in  the  general  radiance  of  beauty  and 
health  and  satisfaction  that  shone  about  her?  In 
short,  who  could  take  that  beauty  to  pieces,  or  question 
which  part  of  it  was  more  or  less  near  perfection,  who 
had  ever  fallen  under  the  spell  of  her  presence  ?  Six 
months  ago  Lily  had  been  conscious  of  that  spell. 


82  THE  SECOND   SON. 

She  had  been  very  willing  to  exercise  it  if  it  existed, 
and  fully  and  fervently  believed  that  the  something 
which  would  certainly  come  would  be  something  to 
her  advancement  and  glory.  But  still  it  had  all  been 
vague.  She  had  not  known  what  kind  of  fly  would 
stumble  into  her  shining  web.  When  Mr.  Wither- 
spoon,  the  gardener,  appeared,  her  heart  had  fluttered; 
she  had  for  a  little  while  supposed  that  he  might  be, 
if  not  the  hero,  at  least  the  master,  of  her  fate.  But 
Lily's  ideas  had  much  enlarged  since  those  days.  She 
had  learned  what  triumph  was.  Visions  very  differ- 
ent from  that  of  the  gardener's  two-storied,  blue-slated 
house  had  passed  before  her  eyes.  That  man  of  science 
who  condescended  to  love  her,  and  wished  to  improve 
her  mind,  was  very  different  from  the  young  Squire, 
who  found  all  her  little  ignorances  half  divine.  Roger, 
with  his  straight,  well-dressed  figure,  standing  up  as 
she  had  seen  him  first,  asking,  was  this  Lily  ?  stroking 
his  mustache  as  he  looked  at  her,  had  been,  in  com- 
parison with  the  solid  gardener,  romance  and  beauty 
embodied  to  the  ambitious  girl,  who,  suddenly  enlight- 
ened by  this  revelation,  awoke  to  the  certainty  that  no 
man  who  was  not  a  gentleman  could  ever  satisfy  her. 
And  since  then  —  well,  since  then —  As  she  mused  a 
conscious  smile  lighted  up  her  face ;  since  then  per- 
haps other  and  still  more  splendid  revelations  had 
come. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  to  yourself  at  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Ford,  who  sometimes  felt  a  prick  of  exasperation  even 
with  her  darling.  "  You  're  thinking  of  Mr.  Roger, 
and  that  he  ?11  make  a  lady  of  you  ;  but  suppose  his 
father  leaves  everything  away  from  him  ?  Oh,  Lily, 
you  don't  know  what  it  is,  trying  to  be  a  lady,  and 
nothing  to  do  it  with.  It 's  worse,  a  deal  worse, 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  83 

than  living  poor  and  thinking  nothing  different,  like 
we  do." 

"  Mr.  Roger  !  "  cried  Lily,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
"  One  would  think  there  was  n't  a  gentleman  in  the 
world  but  Mr.  Roger,  to  hear  you  speak." 

"There  's  none  as  comes  here,  at  least,"  Mrs.  Ford 
said. 

The  conscious  smile  grew  upon  Lily's  face.  It 
seemed  on  the  eve  of  bursting  into  a  laugh  of  happy 
derision.  But  she  made  no  reply  in  words  ;  indeed, 
she  bent  down  her  face  to  hide  the  smile  which  she 
could  not  conceal,  and  did  not  intend  to  explain. 

"  Leastways,  not  as  I  know,"  her  mother  continued, 
with  a  vague  suspicion  passing  like  a  cloud  over  her 
mind.  She  gave  a  moment  to  a  hurried,  frightened 
reflection  on  this  subject,  and  then  said  to  herself  that 
it  was  impossible.  Why,  Lily  was  never  out  of  her 
sight,  never  away  from  her,  never  wished  to  be  away, 
or  take  her  freedom,  like  other  girls.  Lily  was  quite 
satisfied  to  be  always  within  her  mother's  shadow. 
Mrs.  Ford  felt  a  glow  of  happy  pride  as  she  remem- 
bered this,  and  it  drove  all  her  doubts  and  painful 
anticipations  out  of  her  mind.  "  My  pet,"  she  said, 
"  there 's  a  many  things  to  be  thought  of  afore  you 
marry,  and  in  particular  if  you  marry  out  of  your 
own  kind.  I  don't  call  Mr.  Witherspoon  that,  or  even 
young  Mr.  Barnes,  or  Harry  Gill,  though  he  's  as  well 
off  as  can  be." 

"  A  gardener,  a  farmer,  and  a  horse-dealer !  "  ex- 
claimed Lily,  letting  out  her  suppressed  laugh,  but 
with  an  eclat  of  derision  in  it.  "  What  fine  gentle- 
men, to  be  sure !  " 

"  Oh,  Lily !  "  cried  the  troubled  mother.  "  There 's 
not  one  of  them  but  would  be  a  grand  match  for  Ford 


84  THE  SECOND  SON. 

the  keeper's  daughter.  Now  listen  a  bit  to  me.  As 
far  as  that  you  can  go,  and  none  of  them  could  say 
you  nay  when  you  had  your  father  and  your  mother 
up  of  an  evening,  or  to  sit  with  you  when  you  were 
lonely,  or  have  a  bit  of  dinner  at  Christmas,  or  that. 
They  might  n't  be  fond  to  see  us  too  often,  but  they  'd 
never  say  a  word  so  far  as  that  goes." 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  said  Lily,  growing  red.  "  My 
father  and  mother  !  If  they  were  not  proud  to  see  you, 
I  should  know  the  reason  why." 

"  Oh,  my  sweet !  I  always  knew  as  you  'd  be  like 
that.  But,  Lily,"  continued  Mrs.  Ford,  with  bated 
breath,  "  what  if  it  was  the  Hall !  I  've  been  through 
the  rooms  once  with  Mrs.  Simmons,  when  she  was  in 
a  good  humor  because  of  the  game.  Oh,  Lily !  I 
felt  as  if  I  ought  to  take  off  my  shoes.  I  'd  no  more 
have  sat  down  in  one  of  them  golden  chairs,  or  touched 
the  sofas,  except,  may  be,  with  a  soft  clean  duster, 
than  I  'd  have  flown.  I  could  n't  have  done  it.  Velvet 
beneath  your  feet,  and  velvet  on  the  very  footstools, 
and  you  could  n't  turn  round  but  you  'd  see  yourself 
on  every  side.  I  declare,  I  was  nigh  saying  to  Mrs. 
Simmons,  '  Who 's  that  vulgar,  common  person  as 
you  're  showing  round,  and  what 's  the  likes  of  her  got 
to  do  there? '  and  it  was  just  me." 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Lily,  coldly.  She  held  her 
head  very  high,  and  there  was  a  crimson  flush  on  her 
face.  The  view  was,  no  doubt,  new  to  her,  and 
wounded  her  pride,  perhaps  also  her  heart,  deeply. 
She  spoke  with  a  little  difficulty,  her  throat  dry  with 
sudden  passion. 

"  Oh,  my  darling  child,  supposing  as  you  was  to  lead 
Mr.  Roger  on,  and  let  him  come  and  come,  till  he 
had  n't  no  control  of  himself  no  more  ;  and  that 's 


MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  85 

what  it 's  coming  to.  And  supposing  as  it  come  to 
that  as  you  was  married.  And  supposing  the  Squire 
did  n't  make  no  objection,  but  gave  in  to  him  because 
you  was  so  pretty,  —  as  has  happened  before  now.  Lily, 
what  would  you  do  with  your  father  and  your  mother 
then  ?  "  asked  the  good  woman,  solemnly.  "  Would 
you  have  us  up  to  one  o'  your  grand  dinners,  and  set 
us  down  at  your  grand  table,  with  Mr.  Larkins,  as  has 
always  been  such  a  friend  to  your  father,  to  wait? 
It  makes  me  hot  and  cold  all  over  just  to  think  of 
it.  Your  father  always  says  Mr.  Larkins,  he 's  such  a 
good  friend  ;  and  suppose  he  was  standing  up  behind 
my  chair  to  help  me  to  the  potatoes,  or  pour  Ford  out 
a  glass  of  beer.  Lord,  I  'd  sink  through  the  floor 
v/ith  shame,  and  so  would  your  father." 

Poor  Lily  had  been  foolish  in  many  of  her  little 
ways,  but  she  was  miserable  enough  while  she  listened 
to  this  speech  to  make  up  for  much.  She  saw  the 
scene  in  her  quick  imagination,  and  she  too  shivered  : 
the  terrible  Squire  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and  delicate 
little  Miss  Nina,  and  all  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  and 
in  the  midst  of  them  her  father  and  mother,  and  Lar- 
kins grinning  over  their  shoulders !  Lily's  own  heart 
sank  at  the  thought  of  how  she  would  herself  come 
through  if  exposed  to  that  ordeal ;  but  father  and 
mother  !  She  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  keen  pang  of  her 
wounded  pride  :  for  it  was  all  true  ;  it  was  true,  and 
more.  She  felt  as  her  mother  said,  as  if  she  too,  in 
shame  and  mortification,  would  sink  through  the  floor. 

"  If  it  should  ever  come  to  that,"  she  said,  with  a 
gasp,  "  I  should  like  to  see  —  any  one  that  would  dare 
to  look  down  upon  father  and  you." 

"  Oh,  my  pet,  I  knew  you  would  feel  like  that ;  but 
how  could  you  stop  it,  Lily  ?  You  could  n't  stop  it, 


86  THE   SECOND  SON. 

my  dear.  You  would  have  to  get  all  new  servants,  for 
one  thing,  and  they  would  turn  out  just  as  bad  as  the 
old  ones.  There 's  no  way  as  you  could  work  it,  my 
pretty,  —  no  way  !  " 

"  If  it  was  like  that,  I  should  give  up  all  company 
altogether,  and  you  should  come  and  see  me  in  my 
own  room,  where  nobody  could  interfere,"  declared 
Lily.  But  then  the  strain  of  her  tone  relaxed,  the 
hot  color  faded,  and  she  laughed  with  a  tremulous 
mirth  in  which  there  was  an  evident  sense  of  escape. 
"  It  might  have  come  to  that  once,  mother,"  she  said, 
"  but  not  now.  No,  not  now,  —  I  know  better  now. 
If  it  was  Windsor  Castle  he  had  to  offer,  instead  of 
Melcombe  Hall,  I  would  n't  have  him.  Don't  you 
worry  yourself  about  that." 

Mrs.  Ford  gave  a  gasp  of  amazement.  She  had 
meant  to  make  the  drawback  very  clear,  but  she  had 
not  intended  to  be  thus  taken  at  her  word.  That 
Lily  would  weep  and  protest  that  no  such  indignities 
should  ever  be  possible  in  her  house,  be  it  ever  so 
splendid,  was  what  she  meant,  but  no  more. 

"  Lily,"  she  said,  "  Lord  bless  you,  I  did  n't  mean 
you  were  to  give  up  what  was  for  your  happiness  on 
account  of  me." 

"  Do  you  think  I  'd  let  people  look  down  upon  and 
slight  my  mother  ?  "  asked  Lily.  "  Besides,"  she  added 
quickly,  "  he  's  dull ;  he  is  not  the  least  entertaining  ; 
he  is  no  fun,  mother.  There  are  some  that  are  far 
better  fun,  and  just  as  good  gentlemen,  and  never 
would  behave  like  that." 

Mrs.  Ford  was  deeply  disappointed,  in  spite  of  her 
evil  prognostications.  "  Well,  Lily,"  she  said,  "  I  'm 
glad  you  're  so  reasonable.  I  can't  help  feeling  for 
Mr.  Koger,  poor  dear,  but  if  it 's  to  be  Witherspoon, 
after  all "  — 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  87 

"  Witherspoon  !  "  ejaculated  Lily,  with  an  accent  of 
scorn :  but  who  it  was,  or  where  she  had  seen  any  gen- 
tleman who  was  not  Roger,  not  all  her  mother's  im- 
portunities could  make  her  say. 


VIII. 

PRIMOGENITURE. 

THE  atmosphere  of  a  house  in  which  there  is  a  fam- 
ily quarrel  is  always  affected,  however  limited  may  be 
the  extent  of  the  quarrel.  In  the  present  case  there 
were  but  two  of  the  family  involved :  but  they  were 
the  principal  persons  in  the  house.  Xot  a  word  was 
said  about  it  at  the  breakfast  table,  from  which,  in- 
deed, the  Squire  had  disappeared  before  Roger  was 
visible,  to  the  relief  of  everybody  concerned,  nor  at 
lunch,  where  they  met  with  more  civility  than  usual, 
saying  "  Good-morning  "  to  each  other  with  averted 
eyes.  But  at  both  these  meals  the  situation  was  very 
obvious,  the  air  stifling  the  other  members  of  the  party, 
embarrassing  them  to  a  degree  which  was  absurd. 
Why  could  not  they  talk  in  their  usual  tone,  or  keep 
at  least  an  appearance  of  ease  ?  Why  was  it  that  a 
subject  could  not  be  kept  up,  but  was  dropped  instan- 
taneously as  soon  as,  with  two  feeble  remarks,  it  had 
been  brought  into  spasmodic  being?  How  was  it  that 
all  the  ordinary  events  which  furnish  table-talk  seemed 
for  this  moment  to  have  ceased  to  be  ?  Edmund  did 
his  best,  laboring  against  the  passive  resistance  of  the 
two  silent  figures  who  sat  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the 
table,  and  made  no  contribution  to  the  conversation. 
Every  subject,  however,  that  he  could  think  of  ap- 
peared to  have  some  connection  with  forbidden  mat- 
ters. As  Nina's  support  was  of  a  very  ineffectual 


PRIMOGENITURE.  89 

kind,  and  she  was  too  much  in  awe  of  her  father  to 
hazard  many  observations  of  her  own,  the  result  was 
very  unsuccessful.  It  was  so  feeble,  indeed,  that  the 
servants  gave  each  other  looks  of  intelligence,  and 
Larkins  stationed  himself  in  a  pose  of  defense  behind 
his  master's  chair.  If  there  was  to  be  any  split  in  the 
house,  which  was  a  thing  the  servants'  hall  had  fore- 
boded for  some  time  past,  Mr.  Larkins  felt  very  sure 
on  which  side  policy  and  safety  lay. 

The  air  was  thus  affected  throughout  the  house.  It 
diffused  a  kind  of  general  irritation  for  which  nobody 
could  account.  Even  little  Nina  spoke  very  sharply 
to  her  maid,  and  Edmund  kicked  away  the  unoffend- 
ing dog  who  got  between  his  feet  as  he  left  the  dining- 
room.  They  were  angry,  they  did  not  know  why. 
And  Mrs.  Simmons  had  all  the  maids  in  the  kitchen 
in  tears  before  she  had  done  with  them  that  day. 
The  belligerents  themselves  were  the  only  persons  un- 
affected by  this  general  tendency.  They  were  cool  to 
an  exasperating  degree,  polite,  making  remarks  full 
of  solemnity  and  high  composure.  These  remarks 
were  addressed  to  Edmund,  who  figured  as  the  gen- 
eral public.  "  What  do  you  think  of  the  weather,  Ed- 
mund ?  It  was  sharp  frost  last  night,  Larkins  tells 
me,  b»t  I  hope  you  '11  be  able  to  get  a  good  run  to- 
morrow." "  Did  you  notice  if  the  wind  was  veering 
to  the  west,  Ned  ?  I  rather  think  we  are  going  to 
have  a  deluge."  These  were  the  sorts  of  observations 
they  made.  Had  the  mind  of  Edmund  been  free  to 
remark  what  was  going  on,  he  would  no  doubt  have 
been  struck  by  the  comic  aspect  of  the  situation  ;  but 
unfortunately  in  such  circumstances,  though  there  is 
always  a  great  deal  that  is  very  funny,  the  persons 
about  are  too  deeply  concerned  to  get  the  good  of  the 
ludicrous  side. 


90  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Edmund  was  much  startled  to  find  himself  called 
into  the  library  after  that  uncomfortable  meal.  His 
father  made  a  sign  to  him  to  close  the  door,  and 
pointed  to  a  chair  near  his  writing-table.  "  I  don't 
often  make  such  demands  on  your  time,"  he  said. 
"  I  suppose  you  can  give  me  ten  minutes,  Ned  ?  " 

"  As  long  as  you  like,  sir,"  he  said  promptly,  but 
with  some  surprise. 

"  Oh,  as  long  as  I  like  !  It 's  not  exactly  for  pleas- 
ure. Edmund,  perhaps  I  was  a  little  peremptory 
with  your  brother  last  night." 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Edmund,  "  if  you  will  let  me  say 
so.  You  've  always  been  so  good  to  us.  That  makes 
us  feel  it  the  more  when  you  are  a  little  "  — 

"  Ill-tempered,  unjust.  I  know  that 's  what  you 
meant  to  say." 

"  I  meant  only  what  yon  yourself  said,  father,  — 
peremptory.  Roger  is  not  in  a  happy  state  of  mind, 
to  begin  with." 

"  He  has  no  great  reason  to  be  in  a  happy  state  of 
mind.  I  know  he  's  after  some  villainy.  I  've  heard 
it  from  several  people." 

"  No  villainy,"  said  Edmund  quickly.  "  Whoever 
says  so  does  n't  know  Roger." 

"That's  the  most  lenient  interpretation,"  his  father 
remarked  ;  "  otherwise  folly,  madness,  something  too 
wild  to  name."  The  Squire  paused,  and  looked  his 
second  son  almost  imploringly  in  the  face.  "  Can't 
you  do  anything,  Ned?  You  two  are  very  good 
friends,  and  you  've  a  great  deal  of  sense.  There  are 
times  when  I  Ve  thought  you  rather  a  milksop,  not 
much  like  the  rest  of  us,  but  I  never  denied  you  had 
a  great  deal  of  sense." 

"  Thank  you,   sir.     I  'm   afraid  I  am   rather  —  a 


PRIMOGENITURE.  91 

milksop,  as  you  say.  My  kind  of  sense  does  n't  seem 
to  make  much  impression." 

"  It  would,  upon  your  brother,  if  you  would  speak 
plainly  to  him.  A  young  fellow  can  do  that  better 
than  an  old  one.  They  think  we  're  preaching,  they 
think  we  don't  understand.  That 's  a  good  joke," 
said  Mr.  Mitford,  with  a  short  laugh,  turning  his 
eyes  as  it  were  inwardly  upon  his  own  experience. 
"  But  the  fact  is  you  all  of  you  think  so.  Persuade 
him  that  he  's  a  fool,  and  get  him  to  understand," 
continued  the  father,  looking  into  Edmund's  eyes  with 
a  steady  stare,  "  that  what  I  said  was  no  vain  threat. 
I  mean  it,  every  word." 

"  You  mean  —  it,  sir  ?  "  said  Edmund,  with  a  look 
of  surprised  inquiry.  So  little  impression  had  the 
threats  of  last  night  made  upon  him  that  he  did  not 
even  remember  what  they  were. 

Mr.  Mitford's  face  flushed  into  an  angry  redness. 
"  I  mean  it,  and  I  hope  you  don't  intend  to  be  inso- 
lent, too.  I  mean,  sir,  that  there  's  no  eldest  son  in 
our  family.  I  can  make  whomsoever  I  please  the 
eldest  son  :  and  by  Jove,  if  Roger  makes  an  infernal 
fool  of  himself,  as  he  seems  to  intend  to  do  "  — 

"  I  suppose  it 's  quite  legitimate  as  an  argument," 
Edmund  said  reflectively. 

"  Legitimate  !  What  do  you  mean  by  legitimate  ? 
It  is  no  argument ;  it 's  a  plain  statement  of  what  I 
mean  to  do." 

"  If  there  was  any  hope  that  it  would  be  effectual," 
Edmund  went  on,  "  but  my  opinion  is  it  would  have 
exactly  the  contrary  effect ;  and  to  threaten  what  one 
does  n't  mean  to  carry  out  "  — 

"  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  out  of  my  senses  ? " 
cried  the  Squire.  "I  never  threaten  what  I  don't 


92  THE   SECOND  SON. 

mean  to  perform.  Take  care  you  don't  spoil  your 
own  prospects,  too.  As  certainly  as  I  sit  here,  if 
Roger  takes  his  own  way  in  this,  I  shall  take  mine  — 
and  wipe  him  out  of  the  succession  as  I  wipe  off  this 
fly  —  without  hesitation  or  —  compunction,"  he  con- 
tinued, drawing-  a  long  breath. 

"No,"  said  Edmund,  with  a  deprecatory  smile. 
His  heart  quaked,  but  he  would  not  even  appear  to 
believe.  "  No,  no,  —  you  are  angry,  you  take  per- 
haps too  grave  a  view  ;  but  wipe  him  out  —  Roger  ? 
No,  father,  no,  no." 

"  None  of  your  no,  no's  to  me,  sir,"  cried  the 
Squire.  He  had  a  way  of  imitating  his  antagonist's 
tone  mockingly  when  he  was  angry,  but  he  had  not 
the  talent  of  a  mimic.  "  I  say  what  I  mean,  and  not 
a  word  more  than  I  mean.  If  you  cannot  do  any 
more  for  your  brother,  make  him  understand  that  I 
am  in  earnest,  and  you  may  do  some  good." 

"  I  should  only  do  a  great  deal  of  harm.  I  should 
put  him  beside  himself." 

"  Then  there  will  be  two  of  us,"  said  the  Squire, 
with  a  grim  smile.  "  If  that 's  all  you  're  good  for, 
I  'm  sorry  I  asked  you,  and  you  may  as  well  go.  But 
take  care,  my  boy,"  he  added,  rising  as  Edmund  rose. 
"  Take  care  that  you  don't  spoil  your  own  prospects, 
too." 

Edmund  left  his  father's  room  with  something  of 
the  feeling  of  a  man  who  has  been  listening  to  some 
statement  of  important  possibilities  delivered  in  an 
imperfectly  understood  language.  He  made  a  great 
many  efforts  to  elucidate  these  unfamiliar  words,  and 
make  out  what  they  meant.  They  were  as  strange  to 
him  as  if  they  had  been  in  Hungarian  or  Russian. 
"  Wipe  Roger  out  of  the  succession ; "  "  No  eldest 


PRIMOGEN1 TURE.  93 

sons  in  our  family  ;  "  "  Take  care  you  don't  spoil  your 
own  prospects,  too,"  —  the  most  recondite  of  Slav 
dialects  could  not  have  been  more  difficult  to  under- 
stand. The  constitution  of  the  family  was  a  matter 
entirely  beyond  argument  to  this  young  Englishman. 
In  the  abstract,  he  was  ready  enough  to  argue  out  any 
question.  The  law,  as  interpreted  in  different  coun- 
tries under  different  theories,  bore  no  especial  sacred- 
ness  for  him,  that  it  might  not  be  fully  criticised, 
questioned,  or  condemned.  He  was  quite  willing  to 
discuss  the  hereditary  principle  in  general,  both  its 
drawbacks  and  its  advantages.  But  to  think  of  Roger 
disinherited,  of  himself,  perhaps,  preferred,  gave  him 
an  intolerable  sensation  which  it  was  impossible  to 
endure.  Roger  wiped  out  of  the  succession  !  —  his 
brother,  whom  nothing  could  keep  from  being  the 
head  of  the  house,  no  change  in  respect  to  the  estates, 
no  arbitrary  settlement  —  his  elder  brother,  Roger  ! 
There  was  an  incredibility  about  it  which  brought  an 
angry  laugh  to  Edmund's  lips,  yet  struck  him  like  a 
sharp  blow,  like  a  sudden  warning  stroke,  awakening 
him  to  dangers  unthought  of,  to  the  unreality  of  every- 
thing about  him.  It  was  as  if,  walking  along  a  solid, 
well-known  road,  he  had  suddenly  come  to  an  unex- 
pected yawning  precipice,  as  if  he  had  all  at  once  seen 
some  volcanic  crater  open  at  his  feet.  Nothing  less 
than  such  metaphors  could  explain  the  sudden  shock, 
the  tremendous  danger.  Roger  wiped  out  of  the  suc- 
cession, his  own  prospects  —  his  prospects,  good 
heavens !  —  of  disinheriting  his  brother,  of  being  pre- 
ferred in  Roger's  place  !  This  made  the  blood  rush 
to  his  brain,  singing  and  ringing  in  his  ears.  He 
to  disinherit  Roger !  Put  in  that  way  the  warmest 
champion  of  equal  inheritances  would  probably  pause. 


94  THE   SECOND   SON. 

Abstract  justice  is  one  tiling ;  it  may  be  that  children 
have  a  right  to  an  equal  division  of  their  father's  pos- 
sessions ;  it  may  be  that  they  have  no  right  at  all  to 
another  man's  property,  even  though  he  may  be  their 
father ;  but  for  one  to  displace  the  other,  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  father's  weakness  and  grasp  his  inheri- 
tance, —  this,  to  a  generous  spirit,  looks  like  the  worst 
kind  of  robbery.  Edmund  felt  himself  degraded,  in- 
jured, by  the  very  thought.  He  recalled  his  father's 
words.  They  could  not  mean  this  or  that ;  there  must 
be  a  different  signification  to  them.  If  there  were 
only  a  dictionary  of  human  perversities  by  which  he 
could  find  it  out !  He  took  a  long  walk  upon  it,  which 
is  so  good  a  way  of  clearing  the  head  :  but  light  did 
not  come  to  him.  His  father  was  an  honorable  man. 
He  was  a  good  father  ;  he  had  never  done  anything 
unkind  or  cruel.  What  did  he  mean  now  by  this 
insane  suggestion,  by  speaking  in  a  new  language 
which  the  unassisted  intelligence  could  not  under- 
stand ? 

The  sun  had  set  -by  the  time  Edmund  returned 
home.  The  little  paraphernalia  of  the  tea-table, 
which  it  had  pleased  Nina  to  set  up  in  the  hall,  was 
there  in  its  corner,  deserted,  and  nobody  was  visible 
but  Roger,  who  stood  with  his  back  to  the  entrance 
as  Edmund  came  in,  apparently  examining  the  whips 
upon  the  rack,  displacing  and  rearranging  them.  He 
turned  half  round  when  his  brother  entered,  but  for  a 
minute  or  two  took  no  notice,  carrying  on  his  half- 
occupation,  one  of  the  expedients  of  idleness  to  get 
through  a  little  time.  Edmund,  for  his  part,  took  no 
notice,  either,  for  his  heart  was  still  sick  with  be- 
wilderment, and  he  was  reluctant  to  say  anything, 
afraid  to  begin  a  conversation,  though  he  had  so 


PRIMOGENITURE.  95 

much  to  say.  He  went  up  to  the  wood  fire,  which 
blazed  in  the  great  open  chimney,  and  stood  leaning 
upon  the  carved  stone  mantelpiece,  which  bore  the 
Mitford  arms,  and  was  one  of  the  curiosities  of  the 
place.  The  hall  was  the  only  part  of  the  house  which 
had  any  pretensions  to  antiquity.  It  was  full  of 
dark  corners,  with  two  deep-recessed  windows  throw- 
ing broad  lines  of  light  from  one  side  to  the  other. 
One  of  these  was  partially  filled  with  painted  glass, 
coats-of-arms  blazoned  in  the  brilliancy  of  that  radi- 
ance ;  the  other  was  white  and  pale,  full  of  a  silvery 
spring-evening  sky. 

"  How  is  the  wind  ?  "  said  Roger,  at  last.  "  I  hope 
that  old  croaker  is  not  going  to  be  justified  in  his  fore- 
bodings. The  sky  looks  uncomfortably  clear." 

"  There  is  frost  in  the  air,"  said  Edmund.  Then 
he  turned  round,  with  his  bacK  to  the  fire,  in  the  fa- 
vorite attitude  of  an  Englishman.  "  But  I  thought," 
he  said,  "  it  could  n't  matter  much  to  you.  Are  you 
not  going  away  ?  " 

"  Going  away !  Not  that  I  know  of,"  Roger  re- 
plied, curtly. 

"  I  thought  you  said  —  it 's  just  the  time  for  town  ; 
a  number  of  people,  but  none  of  the  whirl  of  the 
season.  Why  don't  you  go?  The  hunting  is  not 
worth  staying  for  at  the  fag  end  of  the  year." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  yourself,  if  you  like  it  so 
much  ?  "  Roger  asked. 

"  I  will,  if  you  '11  come  with  me,  like  a  shot.  To- 
night, if  you  please,  by  the  last  train." 

"  Why  should  I  go  with  you  ?  I  am  not  a  man  for 
town,"  said  Roger,  with  a  gloomy  face,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  fire.  "And  just  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  when  the  country  gets  sweeter  day  by  day ! 


96  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Hang  the  hunting !  Is  that  all  I  care  for,  do  you 
suppose  ?  " 

"  A  man  should  not  shut  himself  up  from  the  com- 
pany of  his  kind,"  remarked  Edmund,  senteutiously. 

"  His  kind  !  And  who  are  they,  I  wonder  ?  Fel- 
lows at  the  club,  who  don't  care  a  brass  farthing  if 
they  ever  see  you  again  —  or  —  or  "  — 

"That's  the  question,"  said  the  younger  brother. 
"  Our  friends  like  us  well  enough  here,  but  they  would 
not  break  their  hearts  if  we  absented  ourselves  for 
three  months,  or  even  for  six.  Come,  Roger,  let 's 
go." 

"You  are  perfectly  welcome  to  go,  whenever  you 
please.  You  don't  want  your  elder  brother  to  take 
care  of  you,  I  hope  ?  " 

"My  elder"  —  Ednuind  murmured  under  his  breath. 
The  word  gave  him  new  energy.  "  Roger,  I  wish 
you'd  listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "Look  here  :  here  is  a 
sort  of  a  quarrel  got  up  in  the  house.  It 's  nothing,  — 
a  fit  of  temper,  a  fit  of  obstinacy ;  for  you  are  a  bit 
obstinate,  you  know.  It 's  nothing,  but  it  puts  every- 
body out  of  sorts ;  even  Nina,  poor  little  thing,  who 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  best  way  by  far  to 
cut  it  short  would  be  to  run  off  for  a  little.  Don't 
you  see,  that  clears  you  from  all  embarrassment.  After 
all,  perhaps  you  ought  to  have  gone  in  and  said  a  word 
to  Elizabeth,  now  that  she  is  just  beginning  to  show 
again.  No  harm  done,  old  fellow,  but  she  might  have 
taken  it  kind." 

"  What 's  Elizabeth  to  me,"  cried  Roger,  "  or  I  to 
her  ?  She  is  just  as  indifferent  —  If  you  had  gone, 
it  might  have  been  more  to  the  purpose ;  or  Steve," 
he  said,  with  a  harsh  laugh,  — "  the  all-conquering 
Steve.  Ned,  if  we  are  not  to  quarrel,  leave  that  alone, 
for  on  that  subject  I  will  not  hear  a  word." 


PRIMOGENITURE.  97 

"On  what  subject,  then,  will  you  hear?"  said  Ed- 
mund, "  for  one  way  or  another  there  is  a  good  deal  to 
say." 

Roger  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  hall,  from 
one  end  to  another.  He  had  his  hands  thrust  into  his 
pockets,  his  shoulders  up  to  his  ears.  The  least  sym- 
pathetic spectator  might  have  observed  the  conflict 
which  was  going  on  within  him.  At  last  he  burst 
forth,  "  Don't  say  anything  at  all,  Ned.  For  good- 
ness' sake,  hold  your  tongue,  and  let  me  think  for 
myself."  He  had  another  long  march  up  and  down, 
then  resumed :  "  If  I  could  think  for  myself !  I  can't 
think  at  all,  I  believe.  I  just  bob  up  and  down  as  the 
current  catches  me.  - 1  think  I  shall  go  to  town,  after 
all.  You  're  right,  Xed  ;  you  are  a  cool,  clear-headed 
fellow,  with  plenty  of  sense.  I  dare  say  I  could  n't  do 
better  than  take  your  advice." 

Edmund  could  not  but  smile  within  himself  at  this 
double  ascription  of  sense  to  him  as  his  special  qual- 
ity. He  did  not  feel  as  though  sense  had  much  to  do 
with  it.  "  Do,"  he  urged.  "  I  don't  think  you  '11  ever 
regret  it,  Roger.  I  '11  tell  Wright  to  put  your  things 
together,  for  a  month,  say.  Shall  I  say  for  a  month  ?  " 

"  I  wonder,  now,"  said  Roger,  fixing  his  gaze  upon 
his  brother,  "  why  you  should  be  so  anxious  about  it. 
It  might  be  pleasant  or  it  might  be  convenient,  but 
why  the  deuce  you  should  make  such  a  point  of  it  I 
don't  see." 

"I  —  don't  make  any  point,"  replied  Edmund.  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  nice  thing  to  do.  I 
should  be  glad  of  your  company.  We  might  do  a  few 
things  together.  We  have  not  been  out  together  like 
this  since  we  were  boys,  Roger." 

"On  the  spree,"  said  the  elder  brother,  with  a  laugh; 


98  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"that's  the  word.  I  wonder  how  Mr.  Gravity  will 
look  when  he's  on  the  —  what  do  you  call  it?"  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  he  said,  "  That 's  not  your 
reason,  Ned." 

"Not  altogether,  Roger.  A  family  quarrel  is  a 
hideous  thing ;  it  upsets  me  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 
My  father  and  you  are  too  like  each  other  ;  you  will 
not  give  in,  one  or  the  other ;  and  a  little  absence 
would  set  it  all  right." 

"Oh,  a  little  absence  would  set  it  all  right!  But 
still,  that 's  not  what  you  mean,  Ned,"  Roger  said. 
He  walked  across  the  hall,  across  the  gleams  of  pris- 
matic heraldic  tints  from  the  nearest  window,  to  where 
the  other  revealed  far  away  the  distant  horizon,  a  whole 
pale  hemisphere  of  sky.  There  he  stood,  his  dark 
figure  outlined  against  that  almost  shrill  clearness, 
while  Edmund  stood  anxious  behind.  What  the  con- 
flict was  which  was  going  on  within,  Edmund  painfully 
guessed,  but  could  not  know,  as  he  watched  him,  in 
that  wonderful  isolation  of  humanity  that  prevents  the 
closest  sympathizer,  the  most  zealous  helper,  from 
understanding  all.  Dared  he  interfere  more  dis- 
tinctly? Must  he  keep  silence?  Was  he  losing  a 
precious  opportunity?  Edmund  could  not  tell.  He 
stood  helpless,  clearing  his  throat  to  speak,  but  in  the 
terrible  doubt  saying  not  a  word. 

"  A  little  absence  would  set  it  all  right,"  Roger  re- 
peated, muttering  between  his  teeth.  "Would  it  so? 
Is  one's  will  of  no  more  consequence  than  that?  A  lit- 
tle absence  —  a  little  —  Ned,"  he  said,  turning  round, 
"  you  need  n't  speak  to  Wright.  Perhaps  I  '11  go,  per- 
haps I  sha'n't;  no  man  can  tell  at  six  o'clock  what 
he  '11  do  at  ten.  We  '11  see  how  the  chance  goes,"  he 
added,  with  a  laugh,  "  if  there  's  time  after  dinner  — • 


PRIMOGENITURE.  99 

or  if  there's  not" —  He  paused  as  he  passed,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder.  "  This  I  will 
say,  whatever  happens,  — you  mean  well,  Ned." 

"  That 's  poor  praise,"  said  Edmund,  "  my  sense 
and  my  good  intentions.  If  you  'd  do  it,  Roger,  for 
my  sake  —  we ' ve  always  been  good  friends,  old  fellow. 
Never  mind  the  good  meaning  ;  do  it  for  love." 

"  For  love ! "  the  other  said.  He  went  away,  with 
a  hasty  wave  of  his  hand.  Was  it  possible  that  his 
brother,  "  that  dearest  heart  and  next  his  own,"  in  the 
very  melting  of  his  fraternal  anxiety,  had  touched  the 
wrong  chord  at  the  last? 


IX. 

MOUNT   TRAVERS. 

MOUNT  TRAVERS,  which  was  the  name  of  the  place 
which  Elizabeth's  uncle  had  built  when  he  became  a 
rich  man,  was  of  a  very  different  description  from  the 
older  houses  of  the  district.  It  stood  out  barely  on 
the  top  of  a  hill,  surmounting  everything  within  range 
of  half  a  dozen  miles,  with  a  few  half-grown  planta- 
tions round  it.  It  was  constructed  in  the  style  of 
what  was  supposed  to  be  in  those  dark  days  an  Eng- 
lish manor-house ;  that  is,  in  red  brick,  to  which  dig- 
nity, it  had  been  fondly  hoped,  was  given  by  the  in- 
troduction of  large  bays  and  great  windows  in  hewn 
stone.  No  redder  or  whiter  house  ever  existed  out- 
side of  a  nursery  book.  At  the  foot  of  the  height  on 
which  it  stood  the  natural  foliage  of  the  leafy  country 
rose  in  waves  of  varying  green,  but  near  the  house 
itself,  to  give  it  shelter  or  shade,  were  nothing  but 
shrubs  and  neatly  planted  trees,  which  were  not  tall 
enough  to  hide  a  single  corner  of  the  brilliant  walls. 
Mr*  Travers  had  thought  all  this  very  fine,  and  a 
proof  of  the  superiority  of  the  nineteenth  century;  for 
there  was  no  other  plate-glass  in  all  the  parish,  and 
the  conveniences  in  every  way  were  innumerable.  His 
horses  and  even  his  cows  were  better  lodged  by  far 
than  the  servants  at  Melcombe,  who  were  all  huddled 
together  in  old  attics  at  the  top  of  the  house,  whereas 
Mr.  Travers'  butler  had  a  large  and  airy  room,  lighted 


MOUNT  TRAVERS.  101 

with  plate-glass,  like  his  masters.  It  had  been  the 
great  pleasure  of  the  last  year  of  old  Travers'  life  to 
make  a  striking  thing  of  that  new  and  resplendent 
dwelling.  You  stepped  into  the  hall  upon  tiles  of 
the  most  elaborate  and  costly  description,  and  found 
yourself  surrounded  with  inlaid  panels  and  carvings 
in  oak,  which  did  not  pretend  to  look  old,  as  most 
things  of  the  kind  do,  but  boldly  showed  in  every  leaf 
and  twig  an  art  manufacture  fresh  from  the  workshop. 
The  staircases  were  all  ornamented  in  the  same  way ; 
the  rooms  were  gorgeous  from  the  hands  of  the  up- 
holsterer ;  everything  was  the  newest,  brightest,  and 
most  highly  improved  of  its  kind. 

Mrs.  Travers  sat  in  the  great  window  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, a  huge,  broad,  and  lofty  bay,  where  the 
plate-glass  extended  from  the  roof  to  the  floor,  and 
all  was  as  light  and  naked  as  the  noonday,  indeed 
much  more  so  ;  for  Nature  at  her  most  unadorned 
never  takes  that  air  of  nakedness  which  a  great,  open, 
unabashed  window,  making  everything  more  distinct 
with  its  vast  film  of  clear  glass,  throws  upon  the  land- 
scape. Mrs.  Travers  in  her  black  gown,  a  speck  in 
that  broad  stream  of  light,  appeared  like  a  small 
black  image  in  the  intense  but  doleful  whiteness  of 
the  prospect  beyond.  It  was  a  rainy  day,  the  clouds 
all  careering  about  the  skies,  throwing  occasionally  a 
spiteful  dash  of  rain  straight  at  the  window,  and  the 
country  looking  dull  yet  shrewish,  like  one  who  would 
fain  scold,  but  dared  not  under  the  circumstances. 
The  successive  waves  of  the  trees,  here  old,  there  more 
recent,  the  faint  tinge  of  green  upon  some,  the  half- 
opened  leaves  of  others  ;  the  undulating  country,  here 
a  common,  there  a  park,  here  a  piece  of  rich  upland, 
there  a  ridge  of  trees,  with  villages  here  and  there, 


102  THE  SECOND  SON. 

and  the  roof  or  turrets  of  a  rural  mansion  appearing 
out  of  a  thick  cluster  of  wood,  —  everything  was  visi- 
ble from  that  big  window.  It  was  like  an  inquisitive 
watcher  spying  all  that  occurred  :  and  in  the  midst  of 
its  staring  whiteness  sat  Mrs.  Travers,  all  black  save 
for  the  widow's  cap  and  cuffs  and  collar,  which  were 
everything  that  is  suggested  by  the  dictates  of  un- 
mitigated woe. 

She  was  a  little,  spare  woman,  with  a  small,  worn 
face,  very  gentle  to  outward  semblance,  yet  with  cer- 
tain lines  in  it  that  denoted  a  querulous  soul.  She 
had  her  work  in  her  hand,  a  large  piece  of  white  knit- 
ting, upon  which  she  generally  kept  her  eyes  fixed, 
talking  softly  on  with  her  face  thus  rendered  opaque, 
save  when  she  would  suddenly  and  quietly  drop  her 
hands  in  her  lap  and  lift  the  said  eyes,  which  were  of 
a  somewhat  muddy  blue.  This  happened  at  periodi- 
cal intervals,  and  was  apt  to  rouse  in  the  interlocutor, 
if  at  all  sensitive,  a  certain  nervous  expectation  which 
was  not  comfortable.  Elizabeth  had  been  used  to  her 
aunt's  "  ways "  all  her  life,  and  she  did  not  so  much 
mind. 

"I  hear  you  were  at  Melcombe  yesterday,  Eliza- 
beth." 

"  Yes,  aunt.     I  went  to  see  Pax." 

"You  have  grown  very  fond  of  Pax,  as  you  call 
her.  It  was  not  much  of  an  object  for  such  a  long 
ride." 

"  Perhaps  the  ride  itself  was  the  chief  object,"  said 
Elizabeth,  with  a  smile.  "  I  have  always  been  fond 
of  Pax,  but  I  did  want  a  ride,  a  good  long  ride,  after 
being  shut  up  so  long." 

"  You  call  it  long  ?  Your  poor  uncle  would  have 
been  surprised  if  he  had  known  that,  after  making 


MOUNT   TR AVERS.  103 

you  his  heiress  and  everything,  you  should  think  six 
months'  mourning  too  long." 

"  Dear  aunt !  "  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  little  sigh  of 
impatience ;  then  she  added,  "  My  uncle  would  under- 
stand ;  he  would  know  that  one  might  long  for  a 
little  fresh  air,  and  yet  mourn  him  as  truly  —  as  truly 
as  "  — 

She  paused.  She  was  a  very  honest  young  woman, 
above  all  treachery.  She  began  to  feel  with  self-re, 
proach  that  there  was  little  mourning  in  her  thoughts. 
Some  natural  tears  she  had  dropped ;  nay,  she  had 
dropped  many.  But  it  cannot  be  denied  that  she  had 
begun  to  wipe  them  soon.  It  is  the  course  of  nature ; 
because  an  old  man  dies,  it  is  impossible  that  a  young 
woman  should  shut  herself  forever  out  of  the  world. 

Mrs.  Travers  put  down  her  knitting,  and  looked  at 
her  niece  with  those  little  pale  blue  eyes.  Elizabeth 
thought  they  looked  through  her,  but  this  was  not  the 
case.  Mrs.  Travers  had  not  yielded  to  any  violence 
of  grief,  and  Elizabeth's  mourning  was  quite  respect- 
fully "  deep,"  which  was  almost  all  that  she  felt  to  be 
required. 

"  Many  people  would  have  thought  it  necessary,  for 
an  uncle  who  had  done  so  much  for  them,  not  to  be 
seen  at  all  for  the  first  year,"  remarked  Mrs.  Travers. 

"  If  that  were  all  —  I  am  not  in  the  least  anxious 
to  be  seen." 

"  Then,  what  were  you  doing  at  Melcombe  ?  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  now  you  are  known  to  be 
your  uncle's  heiress  all  the  young  men  from  far  and 
near  will  be  after  you,  like  flies  round  a  pot  of 
honey." 

"  Indeed,  aunt "  — 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me  you  don't  know.     That  is  one 


104  THE  SECOND  SON. 

of  the  reasons  that  ought  to  have  made  your  poor  dear 
uncle  leave  things  more  in  my  hands ;  for  if  it  had 
been  understood  that  you  were  to  have  the  money 
only  at  my  pleasure,  it  would  have  been  a  refuge  for 
you  from  fortune-hunters.  What  he  has  done,  though 
he  meant  it  well,  is  really  a  very  bad  thing  for  you,'' 
Mrs.  Travers  said,  ending  off  a  row  abruptly,  with  a 
little  tug  to  bring  it  straight.  "  /  know  what  fortune- 
hunters  are." 

To  this  Elizabeth  made  no  reply,  and  after  a  while 
her  aunt  continued.  "You  saw  some  of  the  Mitfords, 
of  course ;  and  of  course  the  old  man,  whom  I  never 
liked,  has  marked  you  down  for  one  of  his  sons.  Oh, 
don't  tell  me;  I  know  it  well  enough.  The  eldest, 
perhaps,  because  Mount  Travers  would  be  such  a  nice 
addition  to  the  property  ;  or  the  second,  because  he 
has  not  very  much  of  his  own,  and  it  would  be  nice  to 
have  him  so  near  home  ;  or  the  youngest.  Now,  if  it 
had  to  be  one  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  suddenly 
lifting  her  dull  but  very  observant  eyes,  "  the  youngest 
would  be  my  choice." 

"  I  wish  you  would  understand,"  replied  Elizabeth, 
with  some  vexation,  "  that  there  is  no  question  of  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  I  saw  the  Mitfords  pass,  all  three 
together,  on  their  way  to  the  station.  That  was  the 
nearest  communication  I  had  with  them.  I  saw  young 
Raymond  Tredgold  and  his  father,  if  you  feel  inter- 
ested about  them." 

"  Oh,  yes,  fortune-hunting  too.  Of  course  I  am  in- 
terested about  them  all :  but  I  will  tell  you  this,  Lizzy, 
if  you  make  any  ridiculous  marriage  like  that,  taking 
up  with  a  boy  ever  so  many  years  younger  than  your- 
self —  I  can't  take  anything  from  you  in  the  end,  but 
you  sha'n't  bring  a  baby-husband  to  live  in  my  house." 


MOUNT  TR AVERS.  105 

Elizabeth  had  gone  to  the  window,  and  stood  close 
to  that  great  expanse  of  light,  leaning  her  head 
against  one  of  the  divisions.  Had  she  been,  as  Mrs. 
Travers  supposed,  dependent,  no  doubt  all  this  would 
have  wounded  her  deeply.  But  as  there  was  not  the 
slightest  vestige  of  right  in  the  matter,  and  the  poor 
lady  was  as  powerless,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  as 
the  chair  on  which  she  was  seated,  the  poor  little  inef- 
fectual injury  was  easier  to  bear.  Elizabeth  stood 
looking  out,  a  little  vexed  but  more  sorry,  with  noth- 
ing but  compassion  slightly  tinctured  with  shame  in 
her  face.  She  was  a  little  mortified  that  her  aunt,  her 
nearest  relative,  who  had  known  her  for  so  long, 
should  speak  to  her  so. 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  be  tried,"  she  remarked, 
with  a  faint  sigh  of  impatience.  And  then  she  added, 
"  Mr.  Gavelkind  is  coming  to  luncheon  to-day.  I 
hope  you  won't  mind.  I  heard  from  him  this  morn- 
ing that  there  was  something  he  wanted  to  speak  to  — 
about." 

She  stopped  short  at  the  pronoun,  in  spite  of  her- 
self. She  could  not  say  "  to  you,"  and  would  not  say 
"to  me."  Her  path  was  very  thorny.  The  lawyer 
had  to  be  received  somehow,  and  must  have  the  way 
prepared  for  him.  Poor  Elizabeth,  in  her  impulse  of 
generosity,  had  found  a  thousand  reasons  to  answer 
all  arguments,  when  she  was  told  that  her  uncle's 
widow  ought  to  be  informed  exactly  what  was  the 
state  of  affairs.  But  she  had  not  foreseen  such  a  very 
ordinary  little  practical  dilemma  as  this. 

"Mr.  Gavelkind!"  cried  Mrs.  Travers.  ""*' I  must 
say  I  think  it  is  very  strange  that  he  should  write  to 
you  about  coming,  and  not  to  me,  Elizabeth.  I  don't 
like  to  say  so,  but  I  can't  hide  it  from  myself.  You 


106  THE  SECOND  SON. 

take  a  great  deal  too  much  upon  you,  my  dear. 
Though  my  husband  did  leave  you  his  heiress,  I  don't 
suppose  he  ever  intended  to  make  you  mistress  of  my 
house." 

"Dear  aunt!*'  cried  Elizabeth  in  despair.  "You 
know  you  never  did  take  any  interest  in  business. 
He  wrote  to  me,  thinking  —  that  he  ought  not  to 
trouble  you  about  such  matters;  thinking  it  would 
worry  you,  and  that  you  would  not  like  it,  and  that 
I —  In  short,"  added  Elizabeth,  with  a  sudden  in- 
spiration, "  it  is  something  about  my  own  little  bit  of 
money,  after  all,  and  nothing  of  yours." 

"Why  did  not  you  say  so  at  once?"  asked  her 
aunt.  "  I  shall  not  wish  ever  to  interfere  with  your 
own  money.  I  have  always  regretted  that  I  was  not 
allowed  to  manage  mine  from  the  beginning.  I  am 
sure  there  would  have  been  more  of  it  now ;  and  as 
•that  is  all  I  have  to  dispose  of,  to  give  any  little  keep- 
sakes to  my  own  relations  —  Well,  we  need  n't  talk 
of  that  any  more.  If  you  want  any  advice  I  shall  be 
pleased  to  give  you  my  opinion,  Lizzy,  but  you  young 
people  think  you  know  everything  better  than  we  do." 

"  No,  indeed,  aunt :  but  I  shall  not  exercise  any 
judgment  of  my  own;  I  shall  do  just  what  Mr.  Gavel- 
kind  advises.  What  do  I  know  about  stocks  and  in- 
vestments?" 

"You  ought  to  know  about  them,  if  you  don't. 
You  ought  to  look  at  the  city  article  every  morning, 
and  improve  your  mind.  My  father  was  a  stock- 
broker, and  that  is  what  he  said.  'Read  the  city 
article,  and  then  you  '11  know  as  much  as  any  of  us 
do,' — that  is  what  he  said.  Of  course  it  does  not 
matter  just  now  with  your  own  thousand  or  two.  But 
when  you  have  all  the  Travers  money  to  manage  "  — 


MOUNT   TRAVERS.  107 

"  I  hope,"  said  Elizabeth,  faltering,  turning  her 
head  still  more  away,  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  the 
untruth  which  she  had  meant  to  be  only  a  tacit  one, 
"  that  it  may  be  very  long  before  "  — 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  in  a  subdued 
and  softened  tone,  "  I  believe  you  do.  I  am  sure  that 
you  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  me  for  the  sake  of  the 
money.  I  may  be  a  little  nasty  about  the  will  some- 
times. It  is  n't  that  I  ever  would  have  alienated  his 
money,  —  you  should  have  had  it  all  the  same,  Lizzy, 
every  penny,  —  only  it  would  have  seemed  more  trust- 
ful-like.  But  any  way,  my  dear,  I  am  certain  you 
never  would  grudge  me  a  day's  enjoyment  of  it,  —  of 
that  I  am  quite  sure." 

Elizabeth  stole  like  a  culprit  behind  her  aunt's  chair 
and  gave  her  a  kiss,  at  the  risk  of  receiving  a  stab  in 
return  from  the  knitting-pins.  She  felt  guilty  but 
glad  this  time,  her  own  heart  melting  too.  "  We  don't 
need  to  say  these  things  between  you  and  me,  do  we  ?  " 
she  whispered,  feeling  very  tenderly  towards  the  guar- 
dian of  her  youth. 

"  But,  my  dear,"  remarked  Mrs.  Travers,  going  on 
with  her  knitting  after  a  little  emphatic  nod  of  assent, 
"  by  that  time  you  will  have  a  husband,  who  will  rule 
the  money  and  you  too." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  At  all  events,  there  is 
no  appearance  of  him  as  yet  upon  the  horizon,"  replied 
Elizabeth  returning  to  her  seat,  this  little  episode 
being  over.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  such  little 
episodes  occurred  almost  every  day. 

"  And  you  nearly  five  and  twenty ! "  said  Mrs. 
Travers.  "  To  a  woman  who  was  married  at  nine- 
teen, as  I  was,  that  seems  quite  old  for  a  girl." 

"  I  don't  consider  myself  a  girl,"  returned  Elizabeth, 


108  THE   SECOND  SON. 

with  a  smile.  "I  am  like  Pax.  I  have  outgrown 
those  vanities." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.  Pax  is  five  and  forty  if  she 
is  a  day,  and  a  clergyman's  daughter  without  a  penny. 
Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  the  Melcombe  young  men  were 
in  love  with  her  —  once  —  except  the  youngest.  The 
youngest  is  the  one  I  should  choose.  He  is  a  fine- 
looking  young  man ;  he  is  not  one  of  the  calculating 
sort.  Roger  is  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  would  snuff 
and  sniff  at  good  honest  money,  and  think  a  great 
deal  more  of  his  mouldy  old  lands :  and  Edmund  is 
a  sentimental  dawdle  ;  but  the  third  one,  Lizzy,  he 
would  be  the  man  for  me.  He  has  always  something 
to  say  to  a  woman.  He  'd  run  off  with  you,  whether 
you  would  or  not ;  he  'd  give  you  no  peace  ;  he  would 
n't  take  no  for  an  answer.  That  is  the  sort  of  young 
fellow  I  like  to  see." 

"Why,  you  are  like  Lydia  Languish,  aunt!  I  did 
not  know  you  were  so  romantic." 

"  I  never  was  for  myself,"  said  the  little  woman, 
who  had  sparkled  up  out  of  her  widow's  weeds  for  a 
moment  with  a  flash  of  spirit  and  fire  which  tempted 
the  listener  to  laugh,  "  married  at  nineteen  to  a  stock- 
broker in  the  city !  I  never  had  any  time  to  be 
romantic.  But  I  confess  I  have  always  been  so  for 
you,  Lizzy..  You  are  a  handsome  woman,  and  you 
were  a  very  pretty  girl.  I  used  always  to  expect  some 
one  to  come  riding  up  out  of  the  distance  for  you. 
When  we  first  came  here  I  always  thought  some  car- 
riage would  break  down  at  the  gates,  or  a  gentleman 
be  thrown  off  his  horse,  or  something.  But  it  never 
happened.  I  was  dreadfully  disappointed  when  you 
got  to  twenty-one,  and  nobody  had  ever  come  for  you. 
Some  girls  have  these  things  happen  by  the  dozen.  I 


MOUNT  TR AVERS.  109 

never  could  understand  why  they  did  n't  happen  to 
you." 

"  Poor  auntie,  how  I  must  have  disappointed  you  !  " 
cried  Elizabeth,  laughing.  "  I  feel  quite  sorry  that 
Prince  Charming  has  never  appeared,  for  your  sake." 

"  But  you  have  him  under  your  hand  now,  or  I  am 
much  mistaken.  Next  time  he  comes  home  on  leave, 
you  will  just  see  if  he  is  n't  over  here  on  some  pre- 
text or  other  before  he  has  been  two  days  at  home, 
Lizzy"  — 

"  Because  he  has  heard  that  —  I  am  my  uncle's 
heiress,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Well,"  observed  Mrs.  Travers,  "  you  can  never 
leave  money  out  of  account  in  affairs  of  this  sort.  A 
man  like  that  would  n't  dare  to  propose  to  you  unless 
you  had  money,  for  he  has  none :  and  how  could  the 
pair  of  you  live  ?  I  don't  call  that  fortune-hunting. 
He  has  a  very  good  position,  he  belongs  to  an  old 
family,  he 's  a  soldier,  which  always  counts  for  some- 
thing, and  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  admires  you  verv 
much.  The  money 's  not  his  object ;  it  only  makes 
his  object  possible." 

"  What  a  clever  woman  you  are,  auntie !  You  are 
a  casuist  as  well  as  a  romancer.  I  never  should  have 
seen  it  in  that  light." 

"  Would  n't  you,  now  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Travers,  with 
gratification.  "  Oh,  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  I  look. 
My  father  always  said  so.  And,  my  dear,  in  such  a 
case  as  that,  I  need  scarcely  say  —  a  man  whom  I 
liked,  and  who  wmdd  cheer  us  all  up,  and  throw  a 
little  eclat  upon  the  place  —  there  would  be  no  need  of 
thinking  of  another  establishment,  Elizabeth.  You 
would  be  welcome,  and  more  than  welcome,  like  my 
sou  and  daughter  in  my  house." 


110  THE  SECOND  SON. 

The  tears  trembled  in  Elizabeth's  eyes,  a  hot  color 
came  over  her  face.  She  felt  guilty  and  ashamed,  and 
yet  she  could  hardly  restrain  the  laugh  in  which  alone 
sometimes  a  perplexed  soid  can  express  itself.  "  You 
are  always  the  kindest  of  the  kind,  dear  aunt,"  she 
said. 

"  You  should  have  your  own  set  of  rooms,"  the  old 
lady  went  on,  quite  pleased  with  her  plan,  —  "  sitting- 
rooms  and  everything.  You  should  choose  them  your- 
selves, and  have  them  furnished  to  your  own  taste.  I 
should  do  everything  I  could  to  make  you  feel  —  I 
mean  to  make  him  feel  quite  at  his  ease :  and  of  course 
you  would  succeed  to  everything  at  my  death.  Now, 
Lizzy,  if  this  does  happen,  as  I  hope  it  will,  and  I  am 
almost  sure  it  will  —  don't  you  take  any  notion  into 
your  head  that  he  should  have  spoken  before ;  for 
how  could  he  speak  before  having  no  money  of  his  own, 
and  not  knowing  whether  there  might  be  anything 
more  than  that  thousand  or  two  of  your  mother's,  on 
your  side  ?  " 

"  My  dear  aunt,  Stephen  Mitford  has  never  spoken 
a  dozen  words  to  me  in  my  life,"  cried  Elizabeth,  a 
little  vexed.  "  He  has  not  the  remotest  idea  of  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  nor  of  me,  at  all,  I  am  sure." 

"  Well,"  returned  Mrs.  Travers,  "  we  shall  see,  we 
shall  see ;  and  certainly  he  is  the  one  that  would  be 
my  choice." 


X. 

THE   LAWYER. 

ELIZABETH  received  the  lawyer,  when  he  arrived,  in 
the  room  which  had  been  her  uncle's  business-room, 
a  plain,  dark-complexioned  little  place,  with  a  large 
writing-table  and  a  few  comfortable  chairs,  but  no 
paraphernalia  in  the  way  of  books  to  distract  the  at- 
tention. The  charms  of  business  by  itself  were  suffi- 
ciently great  to  make  other  pleasantnesses  unnecessary, 
Mr.  Travers  had  thought ;  and  accordingly,  though  the 
window  was  .quite  large  and  of  plate-glass,  it  looked 
out  upon  no  panorama  of  varied  landscape,  but  upon 
a  close  little  corner  of  shrubbery  which  rose  to  a 
climax  in  a  large  larch,  very  feathery  and  fine  in  its 
way,  but  which  certainly  did  not  add  to  the  light  or 
even  cheerfulness  of  the  small,  square,  brown,  uncom- 
promising room.  The  spring  sunshine  did  not  get 
near  this  place,  nor  even  the  blue  of  the  sky.  It  was 
all  larch  and  laurel,  and  a  very  modified  dull  light. 
And  it  cannot  be  said  that  Elizabeth's  companion  was 
an  entertaining  one.  He  was  a  spare  man,  with  a  lock 
of  hair  growing  upon  his  forehead  as  if  it  had  some- 
how strayed  there,  leaving  the  crown  of  his  head  un- 
garnished,  of  a  sallow  gray  color,  not  unlike  parch- 
ment, and  features  that  seemed  too  small  for  his  face ; 
his  nose  appeared  to  have  remained  the  size  it  was  in 
childhood,  and  the  mouth  to  have  grown  into  a  little 
round  aperture  by  some  spell  or  freak  of  nature,  but 


112  THE   SECOND  SON. 

the  extraordinarily  bright  little  twinkling  eyes  which 
completed  the  countenance  seemed  to  promise  that 
Mr.  Gavelkind's  intellect  had  not  been  arrested  in  its 
growth.  They  dwelt  upon  Elizabeth  with  a  very  kind, 
paternal  look  as  he  shoveled  away  into  a  bag  the 
papers  he  had  been  placing  before  her.  She  had  not 
much  more  knowledge  than  she  had  professed  to  have, 
and  did  in  reality  prove  her  confidence  very  completely 
in  the  adviser  who  had  managed  all  her  uncle's  affairs ; 
but  Elizabeth's  ignorance  was  very  intelligent,  and  he 
had  been  explaining  a  great  many  things  to  her,  which 
gave  her  a  certain  interest  in  the  large  transactions 
which  were  now  carried  on  in  her  name. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  shutting  his  bag  with  a  snap, 
"  tell  me,  Miss  Elizabeth,  what  face  am  I  to  put  on 
before  the  poor  lady,  whom  you  are  deceiving  for  her 
good?" 

"  Oh,  don't  say  deceiving,  Mr.  Gavelkind." 

"  What  shall  I  call  it,  then  ?  Give  me  your  name 
for  the  business,  and  I  shall  use  it.  I  know  no  other, 
according  to  my  own  lights." 

"  Then  you  must  not  use  your  own  lights.  Fancy 
allowing  her  to  believe  that  she  is  not  mistress  in  her 
own  house !  I  would  rather  lose  it  altogether,  and  be 
dependent  upon  her  bounty,  as  she  thinks  would  have 
been  more  just." 

"  You  would  not  have  liked  that." 

"No,  perhaps  I  should  n't,  but  that  is  not  the  ques- 
tion. I  have  told  her  —  I  hope  it  is  not  too  dreadful 
a  fib,  but  what  can  I  do? — that  it  is  my  own  little  bit 
of  money  you  have  come  to  me  about." 

"  Well,  it  is  your  own  money,  so  far  as  that  is  con- 
cerned :  but  you  will  have  to  tell  a  greater  fib  before 
you  are  done,  which  is  what  I  warned  you  of ;  and  if 


THE  LAWYER.  113 

she  should  once  get  a  clue,  and  begin  to  suspect,  you 
will  be  very  easily  found  out." 

"  Oh,  please  don't  say  so,  Mr.  Gavelkind.  I  admit 
it  is  n't  so  easy  as  I  thought.  Little  things  occur 
which  I  had  not  foreseen,  and  I  am  quite  frightened 
when  I  see  how  clever  I  get  in  explaining.  Do  you 
think  it  will  give  me  the  habit  of  telling  fibs  ?  " 

"Very  likely  indeed.  But  I  hope  you  can  trust 
your  memory,  for  that  is  the  worst  of  it :  when  we 
step  beyond  the  truth  we  are  so  apt  to  forget  what  the 
last  little  1 —  fib,  I  mean,  was." 

"  You  are  dreadfully  severe,"  said  Elizabeth,  half 
laughing,  not  without  a  little  inclination  to  cry.  "That 
is  exactly  what  I  feel ;  and  sometimes  I  contradict 
myself,  and  can't  remember  what  I  said  last." 

"  Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave,  when  first  we 
practice  to  deceive,"  quoted  the  lawyer.  "  The  thing 
I  fear  is  that  you  will  not  be  able  to  keep  it  up." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  it  up,"  she  cried 
hurriedly,  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  room.  At  times 
this  deception,  at  which  everybody  who  knew  of  it 
shook  their  heads,  got  too  much  for  poor  Elizabeth. 
She  took  Mr.  Gavelkind  to  the  cold  lightness  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  ran  up  to  her  own  room,  to  bathe 
her  forehead  and  refresh  herself.  The  situation  occa- 
sionally got  upon  her  nerves,  as  people  say.  She  felt 
disposed  to  laugh  and  cry,  with  a  sobbing  mixture  of 
sounds,  and  could  not  stop  herself  for  a  minute  ;  but 
Elizabeth  was  not  at  all  a  hysterical  subject,  and  good 
sense  and  cold  water  soon  got  the  better  of  this. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Gavelkind,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  "  I  hear 
you  have  come  to  see  my  niece  about  her  investments. 
Have  you  got  some  new  chance  for  that  little  money 
of  hers?  I  expect  to  hear  it  has  quite  doubled  its 
value,  since  you  take  so  much  interest  in  it." 


114  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  I  take  an  interest  in  the  money  of  all  my  clients," 
said  the  lawyer,  "and  I  am  glad  to  see  that  Miss 
Travers  begins  to  understand  business,  which  is  what 
a  great  many  ladies  can  never  be  taught  to  do." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  assented  the  old  lady.  "  I  was  of 
that  kind  myself,  so  long  as  I  had  my  husband  to 
think  for  me.  But  now  if  you  were  to  give  me  the 
benefit  of  your  instructions,  as  you  do  Elizabeth, — 
you  know  I  am  a  stock-broker's  daughter,  I  ought  to 
have  a  little  aptitude,  —  I  think  I  might  begin  to  un- 
derstand too." 

"  There  is  no  occasion,  my  dear  lady,  no  occasion," 
said  the  lawyer  hastily ;  "  everything  is  as  comfortable 
as  possible.  If  there  is  any  need,  then  it  will  be  time 
enough.  Your  niece  is  getting  back  her  color,  Mrs. 
Travers,  I  am  glad  to  see.  For  some  time  after  your 
great  loss,  whether  it  was  altogether  distress  or  had 
something  to  do  with  the  deep  mourning,  I  quite  feared 
that  Miss  Elizabeth"  — 

"  She  is  always  very  well,  thank  you,"  interrupted 
the  widow  rather  sharply.  "  Elizabeth's  health  need 
give  nobody  any  trouble.  What  should  be  the  matter 
with  her,  at  her  age  ?  At  mine  these  great  shocks  are 
a  very  different  matter."  It  was  indeed  a  little  hard 
upon  Mrs.  Travers  to  have  her  attention  called  to  the 
depth  of  her  niece's  sorrow,  when  no  notice  was  taken 
of  any  paleness  or  changed  looks  of  her  own. 

Elizabeth  came  in  at  this  moment  with  something 
of  a  flush  upon  her  face,  owing  to  the  large  application 
of  fresh  cold  water  with  which  she  had  been  driving 
away  the  momentary  hysterical  sensation  produced  by 
all  the  contrarieties  of  feeling  in  which  she  was  in- 
volved. 

"  She  is  red  enough  just  now,  certainly,"  her  aunt 


THE  LAWYER.  115 

remarked,  choosing,  as  elderly  relatives  not  unfre- 
quently  do,  the  least  complimentary  expressions  pos- 
sible. "Is  luncheon  ready,  Elizabeth?  Mr.  Gavel- 
kind  has  begun  to  think  already  about  catching  his 
train." 

This  anxiety,  though,  perhaps,  it  really  existed  in 
the  lawyer's  mind,  had  not  been  expressed,  but  he 
only  smiled,  and  owned  that  he  was  anxious  to  get 
back  to  town  as  soon  as  possible ;  and  Mrs.  Travers, 
taking  his  arm,  led  him  into  the  dining-room,  which 
was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall,  and  commanded 
the  same  extended  prospect  through  the  clear  sheets 
of  plate-glass. 

"  What  a  view,  to  be  sure ! "  Mr.  Gavelkind  ex- 
claimed. "I  suppose  you  are  higher  up  than  any- 
body in  the  county.  Why,  some  of  the  trees  are  quite 
green  already ;  and  I  like  that  sort  of  purply  down 
over  them  that  shows  spring  's  coming.  Why,  you 
have  the  air  quite  fresh  from  the  sea." 

"  Nine  hundred  feet  above  the  sea  level,"  observed 
Mrs.  Travers,  with  a  touch  of  pride  ;  "  and  nothing  so 
high  between  us  and  the  Channel.  You  can  smell  the 
air  quite  salt  sometimes,  and  even  see  it,  they  say,  on 
fine  days  ;  but  I  can't  say  that  I  put  very  much  faith 
in  that." 

"  And  there 's  Whitelocks  common  just  underneath. 
Such  a  sweep  of  land  as  that  is  quite  good  enough 
without  any  sea.  And  that 's  Whitelocks  itself  among 
the  trees.  I  used  to  know  it  very  well  in  the  late 
lord's  time.  I  know  all  the  country  about  pretty  well. 
What 's  that  brown  house  to  the  west,  with  the  little 
square  tower  ?  Oh,  it 's  Melcornbe,  I  remember.  Are 
the  Mitfords  still  there  ?  I  suppose  you  know  every- 
body as  far  as  you  can  see." 


116  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  We  know  the  Mitfords,  at  all  events,"  replied 
Mrs.  Travers,  significantly,  with  a  glance  at  Elizabeth. 
"  There  are  three  young  men  in  the  house  ;  and  that 
is  a  fact  which  can't  be  without  interest  where  there 
is  a  girl  and  an  heiress." 

"  It  amuses  you,  at  any  rate,  to  think  so,  auntie." 

"  Amuses  me  I  Oh,  no ;  on  the  contrary,  it  makes 
me  very  anxious.  Three  young  men,  all  marriage- 
able, planted  at  my  very  door !  And  I  think  a  young 
woman  in  Elizabeth's  position,  or,  rather,  in  what  her 
position  will  be,  ought  to  have  a  husband.  It  is  all 
very  well  for  her  to  understand  her  investments  under 
your  instructions,  Mr.  Gavelkind ;  but  a  woman  never 
is  very  bright  on  such  matters,  you  may  say  what 
you  like,  and  her  husband  would  understand  them 
much  better." 

"  That  is  sometimes  the  case,  I  must  allow,"  said 
Mr.  Gavelkind,  "  but  Miss  Elizabeth  "  — 

"  I  hope  you  don't  want  to  turn  Elizabeth's  head 
with  your  compliments.  She  is  just  a  girl  like  other 
girls.  She  will  take  up  that  sort  of  thing  if  she  has 
nothing  else  in  her  head,  and  she  will  make  you  think 
she  understands  it.  You  will  imagine  that  she  takes 
quite  an  interest,  and  cares  more  for  it  than  anything 
else.  But  the  moment  other  things  come  in  which 
are  more  congenial,  you  will  find  it  is  like  the  seed 
sown  on  thin  soil,  where  there  is,  as  the  Bible  says, 
no  deepness  of  earth,  and  that  it  has  all  withered 
away." 

"  That 's  very  natural,  I  believe,"  returned  the 
lawyer. 

"  You  talk  me  over  very  much  at  your  ease,"  re- 
marked Elizabeth,  with  a  laugh  ;  but  she  was  a  little 
nervous,  and  slightly  excited  still.  "I  am  quite 


THE  LAWYER.  117 

capable  of  taking  care  of  myself  and  of  everything 
I  may  have,  without  asking  other  assistance  than  Mr. 
Gavelkind's,  I  assure  you,  aunt." 

"  You  need  not  assure  me  anything  of  the  kind,  for 
I  will  not  believe  it,"  Mrs.  Travers  answered :  and 
then  turning  to  the  lawyer  she  said,  "  What  I  am 
afraid  of  is  that  Elizabeth  will  choose  the  least  suit- 
able, if  she  is  left  to  herself,  which  is  what  girls  gen- 
erally do.  But,  fortunately,  she  has  not  very  much 
to  think  of  in  the  way  of  money  as  yet." 

"  Fortunately  !  "  assented  the  lawyer.  He  had  shot 
one  glance  out  of  his  keen  eyes  at  Elizabeth,  who  had 
not  replied  with  any  sign  or  look  from  hers.  Then 
he  directed  the  conversation  into  another  channel  by 
commending  the  dish  from  which  Mrs.  Travers  had 
helped  him.  She  was  very  ambitious  on  the  point  of 
cookery,  and  delighted  to  hear  that  Mr.  Gavelkind's 
cook  had  never  been  able  to  reach  the  perfection  of 
these  chicken  cutlets.  "  And  she  came  to  me  from 
Lord  Youngham's,"  the  lawyer  said,  "  where  a  great 
deal  of  attention  was  paid  to  the  kitchen.  There  was 
a  French  man  cook,  and  this  woman  of  mine  was  the 
first  kitchen-maid  :  but  we  never  have  anything  on 
our  table  that  can  come  up  to  this." 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Gavelkind  does  not  take  a  great  in- 
terest in  it  herself,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  well  pleased. 
"  They  all  know  I  do  ;  not  for  the  sake  of  eating,  — 
though  I  think  that  even  in  the  way  of  eating  we 
should  all  know  what  we  are  about,  —  but  I  love  to 
see  a  nice  dish,  looking  well  and  tasting  well.  I  take 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  about  it  altogether.  I  'm  fond 
of  seeing  a  nice  luncheon  and  a  nice  dinner  on  the 
table.  And  my  cook  knows  that.  Has  Mrs.  Gavel- 
kind  ever  tried  "  —  And  here  the  old  lady  entered 


118  THE  SECOND  SON. 

into  domestic  particulars  such  as  her  listener  did  not 
disdain.  Elizabeth  sat  and  listened  vaguely,  hearing 
the  voices  run  on,  though  without  any  very  clear  per- 
ception of  what  they  said.  She  was  not  interested  in 
all  the  ingredients  of  the  sauce,  and  the  elaboration 
of  the  process  by  which  that  perfection  was  reached, 
but  she  knew  it  interested  her  aunt,  and  that  there 
was  no  such  good  way  of  withdrawing  her  attention 
from  much  more  important  matters.  Elizabeth  sat  at 
the  foot  of  the  square  table,  drawn  near  the  window 
now  that  the  weather  was  milder,  and  commanding 
the  whole  wide  landscape,  miles  upon  miles,  in  all 
the  softness  of  the  spring  tints,  stretching  away  into 
the  horizon.  In  the  midst  of  this  wide  scene  her  eyes 
instinctively  caught  the  low  square  tower  of  Mel- 
combe  amid  its  trees.  When  the  foliage  was  out  the 
house  was  almost  hid,  but  at  the  present  moment  the 
range  of  those  windows  along  the  south  front,  which 
made  every  one  a  little  chamber  of  its  own,  projecting 
from  the  long  line  of  the  sitting-rooms,  showed  all 
the  way,  and  reminded  Elizabeth,  in  spite  of  herself, 
of  various  little  scenes.  She  had  sat  there  on  sum- 
mer evenings,  last  year,  with  Nina  and  her  chatter, 
with  "the  boys,"  as  Pax  called  them,  one  after  an- 
other. Her  aunt's  remarks  brought  those  recollec- 
tions back.  Last  summer  had  been  the  only  one  in 
which  the  Travers  household  had  been  fully  received 
into  the  life  of  the  county.  There  had  been  a  certain 
amount  of  curiosity  about  them  and  their  reported 
wealth,  and  their  great  new  blazing  house,  and  then 
there  had  been  a  certain  hesitation  before  the  neigh- 
bors "  took  them  up  ;  "  but  that  period  of  doubt  had 
ended  in  a  general  advance,  and  during  the  last  sum- 
mer before  her  uncle  died  they  had  "  gone  every- 


THE  LAWYER.  119 

where,"  as  people  say.  It  was  a  good  thing  he  had 
tasted  such  sweetness  as  there  was  in  that,  Elizabeth 
thought  to  herself,  as  her  aunt  discoursed  and  en- 
lightened her  appreciative  listener.  Poor  old  uncle ! 
he  had  got  as  much  good  as  the  circumstances  allowed 
out  of  the  situation.  It  had  been  a  great  pleasure  to 
him  to  build  that  wonderful  house,  with  all  the  latest 
improvements  in  it,  and  to  overtop  everybody,  look- 
ing down  upon  the  lower-lying  houses  of  the  gentry, 
and  upon  the  villages  that  peeped  at  various  corners. 
And  at  the  last  he  had  been  very  well  received  in  the 
county  ;  he  had  been  asked  to  all  the  best  houses,  he 
had  felt  himself  to  be  acknowledged  by  all  the  con- 
stituted authorities :  no  doubt  that  had  given  him 
pleasure.  But  now  that  he  was  dead,  and  had  left 
so  many  complications  and  perplexities  behind  him, 
Elizabeth  could  not  but  ask  herself  whether  it  was  an 
unmingled  good  to  be  thus  uplifted,  like  a  city  on  a 
hill,  to  be  stared  at,  perhaps  laughed  at.  The  situa- 
tion of  the  house  and  her  own  situation  seemed  to  run 
into  each  other,  so  that  she  could  scarcely  keep  them 
apart.  She  was  the  heiress,  known  far  and  wide,  held 
out  to  public  competition,  as  it  were,  just  as  her  house 
was  held  out  in  a  blaze  of  color  and  reflection,  so  that 
all  the  county  could  see  it.  If  they  had  stayed  in 
town,  Elizabeth  would  have  been  but  one  of  many, 
and  she  would  have  lived  in  the  unobtrusive  level  of 
a  street,  in  the  midst  of  other  houses  like  her  own. 
What  a  pity  that  it  had  ever  occurred  to  him  to 
plunge  into  this  new  way  of  living,  to  begin  afresh 
for  so  short  a  time  in  this  new  world ! 

Presently,  however,  the  conversation  in  which  she 
took  no  part  came  to  an  end,  and  Mr.  Gavelkind  be- 
gan to  fidget  and  to  talk  of  his  train.  He  had  time 


120  THE  SECOND  SON. 

to  walk,  but  no  more  than  time,  and  the  walk  would 
be  more  pleasant,  he  declared,  than  the  dog-cart  which 
was  at  his  service.  "  Perhaps  Miss  Elizabeth  will 
walk  down  the  hill  with  me,"  he  said.  And  Elizabeth 
took  him  through  the  new  plantations,  still  so  strag- 
gling and  unfinished  in  their  youthfulness,  by  the 
short  cut  to  the  railway,  which  was  another  thing  Mr. 
Travers  had  prided  himself  upon.  "  Poor  uncle  liked 
to  think  he  had  so  short  a  way  to  the  station.  He 
used  to  say  that  though  we  were  so  much  higher  up 
than  anybody,  we  had  still  the  nearest  access  to  the 
world." 

"  Poor  old  gentleman,"  remarked  Mr.  Gavelkind. 
"  What  a  pity,  what  a  pity  !  Just  when  he  had  got 
everything  ready  for  his  own  enjoyment,  to  go  and 
leave  it  all !  He  must  have  regretted  it  so  ;  and  who 
can  tell  whether  there  will  be  all  the  modern  improve- 
ments where  he  has  gone?" 

"  You  must  not  laugh,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  He  was 
very  good  to  me.  I  can't  bear  laughing  on  such  a 
subject." 

"  My  dear  young  lady  !  Laugh !  No,  you  need  not 
fear,  there  was  no  laughing  in  my  mind.  It  is  a 
curious  question,  though,  and  one  I  often  think  of: 
What  will  happen  to  us,  with  all  our  artificial  wants, 
in  what  I  may  call  Another  Place  ?  Don't  you  know 
what  I  mean  ?  It  should  be  primitive  there,  if  it 's 
anything ;  like  Eden,  don't  you  know  ?  —  quite  pas- 
toral or  agricultural  at  the  most ;  and  an  old  gentle- 
man accustomed  to  a  town  life  and  all  sorts  of  conven- 
iences —  If  you  think  I  am  laughing  you  are  very 
much  mistaken.  I  often  think  of  it,  and  how  much  at 
a  loss  we  shall  probably  be,"  Mr.  Gavelkind  said,  with 
a  sigh. 


THE  LAWYER.  121 

Elizabeth  felt,  with  a  humorous  suggestion  at  which 
she  was  shocked,  the  ruefulness  in  her  companion's 
tone,  —  an  old  city  man,  full  of  his  little  habits,  in 
the  garden  of  Eden !  It  was  not  possible  to  exclude 
a  sense  of  the  ludicrous  from  that  image. 

"  I  should  think,"  she  said,  with  a  little  trembling 
of  her  lip,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  caused  more 
by  a  struggle  to  preserve  her  gravity  than  to  repress 
her  feelings,  "  that  all  good  people  would  be  at  home 
there." 

"  Yes,  yes,  oh,  yes !  "  cried  Mr.  Gavelkind ;  and  then 
he  changed  the  subject  abruptly,  pausing  upon  a  knoll 
to  take  breath,  and  pointing  with  a  wave  of  his  hand 
toward  Melcombe.  "  My  dear  Miss  Elizabeth,  I  Ve 
known  you  all  your  life,  and  I  am  one  of  your  trus- 
tees :  tell  me,  is  there  any  truth  in  what  Mrs.  Travers 
said  ?  " 


XI. 

THE  SQUIRE. 

ELIZABETH  came  quickly  up  the  slope,  having  parted 
with  the  lawyer  at  the  gate.  Perhaps  the  color  on  her 
face  was  partly  from  the  climb,  but  it  was  no  doubt 
a  little  from  the  cross-examination  to  which  she  had 
been  subjected.  Something  in  it !  She  had  answered 
quickly,  "  Nothing  whatever  !  "  with  a  little  start  al- 
most of  offense.  Then  she  had  laughed,  and  said  it 
was  silly  of  her  to  feel  annoyed.  "  My  aunt  is  not  a 
match-maker,"  she  said,  "but  she  likes  to  speculate 
on  possibilities,  which  are  possibilities  only  in  her  own 
mind." 

"Many  ladies  do,"  assented  Mr.  Gavelkind.  "It 
is  like  making  up  a  novel.  It  seems  to  give  them  a 
great  deal  of  amusement." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  It  is  too  silly  to 
object  to  what  amuses  her:  only  she  ought  not  to 
speak  of  it  as  if  it  were,  or  might  be,  true." 

The  lawyer  gave  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  young 
lady  by  his  side,  whose  color  had  risen  though  she 
laughed.  "Xo,  that's  imprudent,"  he  said.  "It  some- 
times spoils  sport." 

They  had  reached  the  gate  as  he  said  this,  and 
Elizabeth  had  not  time  to  object  or  protest.  But  she 
was  red  with  indignation  as  well  as  other  sentiments, 
as  she  hastened  up  the  ascending  path.  The  air  was 
very  fresh  in  her  face,  coming  from  the  west,  the  rainy 


THE   SQUIRE.  123 

quarter,  and  charged  with  moisture.  The  gravel  glis- 
tened, and  so  did  the  polished  leaves  of  the  evergreens, 
with  the  occasional  showers.  It  was  not  a  cheerful 
day,  on  the  whole,  for  the  ordinary  pedestrian,  but 
Elizabeth,  in  the  revulsion  of  feeling  after  six  months 
of  partial  seclusion,  and  with  the  consciousness  of  the 
spring  in  her  veins,  found  a  certain  excitement,  if  not 
exhilaration,  even  in  the  hostile  weather,  the  dash  of 
rain  in  her  face,  and  the  capricious  puffs  of  the  change- 
able wind.  After  that  quiet  period  her  mind  had 
sprung  up  afresh.  She  felt  a  tumult  of  life  in  it, 
pushing  forward  to  new  efforts.  She  walked  briskly 
up  and  down  the  broad  walk  in  front  of  the  house. 
Mrs.  Travers  had  left  her  usual  place  in  the  great  win- 
dow of  the  drawing-room,  and  retired  to  her  bedroom 
for  her  equally  usual  doze,  so  that  there  was  no  one  to 
disturb  or  to  be  disturbed  by  Elizabeth  as  she  paced 
up  and  down,  keeping  the  confusion  of  her  thoughts  in 
restraint  rather  than  actively  producing  them.  There 
was  too  much  rain  in  the  sky  to  justify  a  long  walk, 
even  in  the  close-fitting  dark-gray  ulster  and  cloth  hat, 
which  were  things  which  could  take  no  harm  :  and 
nowhere  could  she  have  got  more  air  or"  a  more  ex- 
tended prospect.  There  is  little  doubt  that  Mr.  Gav- 
elkind  had  given  a  fresh  start  and  impetus  to  her 
thoughts  with  his  questions.  They  hurried  on  far  more 
quickly  than  her  steps,  which  scattered  the  gravel ; 
they  went  as  quick  as  the  clouds  careering  over  the 
sky.  Now  and  then  when  she  came  to  the  end  of  her 
promenade,  as  she  turned  quickly,  the  immense  land- 
scape below  suddenly  attracted  her,  and  made  her 
stand  still  for  a  moment.  What  a  breadth  of  undula- 
ting country,  what  ridges  of  trees,  what  soft  down  of 
the  new  corn  upon  the  fields.  Everything  was  full  of 


124  THE  SECOND    SON. 

promise  and  new  life ;  the  very  sap  showing  as  it 
coursed  in  the  veins  of  every  tree. 

But  there  was  one  spot  which  above  all  others  at- 
tracted Elizabeth's  look.  Her  eyes  turned  there  in- 
stinctively, she  did  not  know  why.  Seriously  she  did 
not  know  why,  unless  because  the  recent  talk  had 
directed  her  that  way  in  spite  of  herself.  For,  she 
said  to  herself,  she  had  no  connection  with  Melcoinbe 
to  turn  her  face  that  way,  —  none  whatever  1  There 
was  nothing  in  it ;  neither  in  her  aunt's  foolish  talk, 
nor  in  the  questions  which  Mr.  Gavelkiud  •  had  put, 
and  to  which  Elizabeth  believed  she  had  been  very 
decisive  and  even  peremptory  in  her  reply. 

Nothing  in  it  ?  After  all,  was  that  quite  seriously 
and  sincerely  true  ?  Or,  if  so,  why,  in  all  that  land- 
scape, did  her  eyes  light  continually  upon  the  little 
square  tower  of  Melcombe  among  the  trees? 

Elizabeth  was  disturbed  by  the  interposition  of  the 
question  put  against  her  will  by  herself  to  herself. 
One  can  answer  a  lawyer,  though  he  may  put  his  ques- 
tion very  cleverly,  much  better  than  one  can  answer 
one 's  self.  When  one's  self  chooses  to  be  inquisitive, 
there  is  nothing  for  it  but  sophistry  and  a  wrapping 
up  of  the  question  in  evasions,  which,  however,  do 
not  conceal  the  truth  from  that  all-scrutinizing  judge. 
Was  there  nothing  in  it  ?  There  was  this  in  it :  that 
there  were  two  young  men  at  Melcombe  (Elizabeth 
characteristically  replied  to  her  aunt's  imaginations  on 
the  subject  by  forgetting  that  there  was  a  third),  about 
her  own  age,  in  her  own  position,  likely  enough  either 
of  them.  She  turned  abruptly  round  and  gave  her 
head  a  shake,  to  throw  off  any  irrelevant  thoughts. 
Well,  what  about  those  two  young  men  ?  They  were 
nothing  to  Elizabeth.  They  were  well  looking  enough, 


THE   SQUIRE.  125 

well  mannered,  well  educated,  on  the  whole  nice 
enough.  You  could  not  better  them  in  a  summer's 
day.  A  woman  could  not  complain  if  either  of  them 
fell  to  her  lot.  At  Whitelocks  the  eldest  son  was  a 
shambling  boy,  but  the  Mitfords  were  excellent  repre- 
sentatives of  manhood.  That  was  all  that  there  was 
to  say,  and  the  reader  will  perceive  that  it  was  nothing. 
There  was  nothing  in  it ;  and  Elizabeth  Travers,  so 
far  as  these  young  men  were  concerned,  was  fancy-free. 

She  laughed  softly  to  herself,  after  she  had  got 
over  the  little  shock  with  which  she  had  been  conscious 
that  herself  to  herself  was  putting  that  question. 
There  is  safety  in  numbers,  she  thought ;  one  does 
not  fall  in  love  with  two.  But  both  were  interesting 
to  her,  she  could  not  venture  to  deny.  Nay,  she  would 
admit  it,  proclaim  it,  holding  her  head  high.  In  all 
the  county  she  had  not  become  acquainted  with  any 
other  two  human  creatures  so  interesting.  They  had 
both  been  in  love  with  Pax,  in  their  day,  —  dear  Pax, 
who  called  them  "  the  boys,"  and  was  so  fond  of  them, 
and  their  most  faithful  friend.  There  was  something 
in  all  this  which  pleased  Elizabeth's  imagination.  It 
was  quite  a  beautiful  point  in  the  moral  landscape,  as 
in  the  scene  before  her  it  was  pretty  to  see  the  tower 
of  Melcombe  rising  homely  and  brown  among  the  trees. 
If  there  were  anything  in  it,  that  was  all,  and  what 
was  that?  Nothing  whatever,  as  she  had  said. 

At  this  point  Elizabeth  became  aware  of  a  figure  on 
the  road  below,  walking  briskly  in  the  direction  of  the 
lodge,  which  lay  almost  at  her  feet.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  air  which  made  it  apparent  to  her  that  he 
was  coming  to  call.  How  it  is  that  this  is  always  so 
unmistakable  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  and  yet  it  is  so. 
You  can  tell  even  by  the  pace  of  the  horses  when  a 


126  THE   SECOND  SON. 

carriage  is  aiming  for  your  own  door ;  how  much  more 
by  the  attitude  of  a  man !  He  was  coming  to  call. 
Who  was  he  ?  A  large,  imposing  presence  of  a  man ; 
holding  his  head  high,  walking  as  if  the  place  be- 
longed to  him.  That  was  how  the  lodge-keeper's  wife 
described  him  afterwards.  "  Mr.  Mitford  's  a  fine 
man,"  she  said ;  "  he  's  like  a  nobleman.  He  walks 
as  if  the  ground  was  n't  good  enough  to  set  his  whole 
foot  upon,  kind  of  starting  off  from  it,  like  he  scorned 
it." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  him  for  some  time,  with  his 
springy  step,  not  making  out  who  he  was.  When  it 
suddenly  dawned  upon  her  that  it  was  Mr.  Mitford  of 
Melcombe,  not  the  son  but  the  father,  the  blood  flashed 
again  with  double  power  to  her  face,  and  she  hurried 
in-doors,  feeling  as  though  she  were  escaping ;  and  yet 
she  had  no  wish  to  avoid  the  visitor.  She  ran  up- 
stairs to  her  aunt's  room,  and  tapped  at  the  door. 
"  Dear  aunt,  I  don't  want  to  disturb  you,  but  here  is 
Mr.  Mitford  coming  to  call,"  she  said.  Then  she 
went  to  her  own  room,  and  threw  off  her  ulster  and 
her  cloth  hat,  in  which  she  looked  very  pretty,  though 
she  was  horrified  at  the  idea  of  being  found  in  them, 
and  smoothed  her  ruffled  locks.  Her  hair,  thus  blown 
about  by  the  wind,  and  sprinkled  with  diamond  drops 
by  the  rain,  was  extremely  becoming  in  its  untidy 
condition.  Perhaps  Elizabeth,  as  she  glanced  into  the 
glass,  was  not  unconscious  of  this,  but  she  brushed  it 
all  flat  and  smooth  with  a  remorseless  hand. 

Then  slowly,  decorously,  she  went  down-stairs  and 
took  up  her  place  in  the  drawing-room,  in  front  of  the 
great  window,  to  prepare  for  the  visit,  —  which  after 
all  was  no  more  than  any  other  visit,  if  there  were 
nothing  whatever  in  what  her  aunt  had  said  to  the 


THE   SQUIRE.  127 

lawyer.  Elizabeth's  heart  beat  a  little,  all  the  same, 
she  could  not  have  told  why,  and  she  had  more  color 
than  usual  and  a  brighter  reflection  in  her  eyes. 

"I  understood  that  Mrs.  Travers  was  seeing  her 
friends  at  last,"  Mr.  Mitford  said.  "  I  am  glad  of  it, 
heartily  glad  of  it.  It  is  not  good  to  shut  one's  self 
up  with  one's  grief,  if  you  will  let  me  say  so." 

"  It  was  scarcely  that.  My  aunt  has  not  been 
well.  She  is  always  delicate,  and  it  was  a  great 
shock." 

Elizabeth  did  not  like  to  take  the  sacred  name  of 
grief  in  vain.  She  felt  with  a  movement  of  shame 
that  even  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Travers  the  sorrow  which 
had  followed  her  uncle's  death  had  not  been  of  that 
sublime  and  majestic  kind,  devoid  of  consolation,  in 
which  youth  hopes  and  believes. 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  assented  the  Squire,  "but  we 
must  not  let  our  emotions  swallow  us  up.  Something 
is  due,  my  dear  Miss  Travers,  to  our  friends  and  to 
society.  Because  one  is  absent,  however  dear,  we 
must  not  shut  out  all  the  world." 

Elizabeth  was  silent,  not  knowing  how  to  reply  to 
such  a  broad  statement,  and  Mr.  Mitford  went  on  to 
make  various  inquiries  about  her  own  tastes  and  hab- 
its. He  had  heard  that  she  had  been  at  the  Rectory, 
with  that  noble  mare  of  hers.  It  would  have  been 
very  pleasant  to  him  if  she  had  come  as  far  as  Mel- 
combe  ;  but  he  was  aware  that  his  little  Nina  was  too 
much  of  a  child  to  be  any  attraction,  and  that  he  and 
a  parcel  of  sons  could  scarcely  expect  such  a  visitor, 
"though  we  should  all  have  felt  it  a  great  honor,"  he 
added.  He  had  always  been  civil  to  Elizabeth,  being 
the  kind  of  man  who  is  never  unaffected  by  the  pres- 
ence of  a  woman  with  any  pretensions  to  good  looks ; 


128  THE   SECOND  SON. 

but  he  had  never  before  paid  his  court  in  this  defe- 
rential way.  The  effect  was  somewhat  bewildering, 
slightly  amusing,  half  oppressive ;  and  Elizabeth  was 
glad  when  Mrs.  Travers  appeared,  to  whom  he  made 
some  of  these  pretty  speeches  over  again. 

"I  have  no  one  to  pay  visits  for  me,"  he  said;  "my 
little  daughter 's  too  young.  You  must  accept  me  as 
the  representative  of  my  family,  Mrs.  Travers,  and 
let  me  express  my  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  we 
shall  have  you  in  the  midst  of  us  again." 

"You  are  very  obliging,  Mr.  Mitford,"  returned 
Mrs.  Travers.  The  little  lady  was  much  surprised 
and  slightly  excited  by  this  unexpected  cordiality.  It 
looked  as  if  he  must  mean  something,  but  what  to  a 
six  months'  widow  of  her  respectable  standing  could 
the  man  mean? 

"My  sons  have  just  left  me,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  One  can't  easily  keep  young  men  out  of  London  at 
this  time  of  the  year.  Roger,  indeed,  is  not  at  all  a 
man  for  town ;  but  it  takes  some  time  to  get  out  of 
the  engagements  which  a  young  fellow  plunges  into 
without  thought.  He  '11  make  a  good  family  man  one 
of  these  days." 

"He  ought  to  marry,"  declared  Mrs.  Travers. 
"That  is  the  best  thing  to  steady  a  young  man." 

"  The  very  best,  my  dear  lady,  —  the  foundation  of 
all  real  happiness,  as  you  and  I,  alas,  have  good  rea- 
son to  know." 

Mrs.  Travers  eyed  her  visitor  with  some  curiosity. 
"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  say  '  alas.'  It  has  been 
the  very  best  thing  for  me  that  ever  happened  in  my 
life,  and  I  am  sure  my  poor  dear  would  have  said  so 
too.  He  has  left  me  only  a  life  interest  in  the  prop, 
erty,"  she  added  abruptly,  fixing  her  eyes  coldly  upon 


THE   SQUIRE.  129 

the  visitor,  in  whom,  with  all  directness  and  a  good 
deal  of  the  pleasure  of  being  acute  enough  to  see 
through  and  through  him,  she  saw  a  possible  candi- 
date for  the  reversion  of  Mr.  Travers'  possessions. 
The  widow  felt  that  there  should  be  no  deception  prac- 
ticed upon  him  in  that  respect. 

"  A  life  interest ! "  Mr.  Mitford  said.  He  knew  all 
about  the  will,  much  better  than  she  herself  did.  "  I 
thought  that  Miss  Travers  —  I  thought  that "  — 

Elizabeth  looked  quickly  up  at  him  with  a  keen 
glance  of  meaning,  which  he  did  not  understand, 
though  it  startled  him.  "  I  am  sure,  aunt,  that  Mr. 
Mitford  does  not  care  to  examine  into  our  private  af- 
fairs," she  said. 

"  I  have  no  secrets,  Elizabeth ;  everything  has  al- 
ways been  quite  clear  and  above-board  with  me.  So 
near  a  neighbor  might  easily  be  interested.  Yes,  the 
property  is  all  locked  up  hard  and  fast.  It  was  his 
own,  to  do  what  he  liked  with  it,  and  I  never  should 
have  gone  against  him.  The  only  thing  that  I  feel  a 
little  is  that  he  might  have  known  me  better,  and  had 
more  confidence ;  but  no  doubt  everything  is  for  the 
best." 

"That  is  always  a  satisfaction,"  remarked  the 
Squire  piously,  "  whatever  our  circumstances  may 
be." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  "  but  no  doubt  you 
have  noticed  that  people  seldom  say  so  when  they  are 
pleased  with  their  circumstances.  I  care  nothing 
about  the  property,  for  in  any  case  of  course  Elizabeth 
should  have  had  it  after  me,  all  the  same.  .  It  is  only 
the  want  of  confidence  that  is  a  little  vexing.  But  you 
great  proprietors,  I  have  always  heard  say,  have  just 
as  little  freedom  with  your  entails." 


130  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  Not  I,"  replied  Mr.  Mitford  briskly.  "  There  is 
no  entail  to  speak  of  in  my  property.  I  can  leave  it 
to  whom  I  like,  the  youngest  as  easily  as  the  eldest, 
—  or  away  from  them  altogether,  if  I  please." 

"  Dear  me,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Travers  ;  then,  after  a 
pause,  "  It  must  give  you  a  great  deal  of  hold  on  them 
to  have  that  in  your  power." 

"  It  does,"  he  said,  with  a  satisfied  expression,  shut- 
ting his  mouth  after  the  words  were  said,  as  if  he  had 
closed  and  locked  the  door  of  his  treasures.  Elizabeth 
sat  and  looked  on  with  a  curious  terror  and  repug- 
nance growing  upon  her.  These  two  old  people  (as 
she  thought  them,  though  neither  was  very  old),  com- 
paring notes  with  a  certain  eagerness  of  fellow-feeling 
over  their  power  to  influence  the  generations  after 
them,  sent  a  chill  into  her  blood.  One  of  them,  at 
least,  might  be  impotent  to  do  anything,  but  there  was 
a  gleam  in  Mrs.  Travers'  eyes  which  told  how  much 
she  also  would  like  to  have  the  power  of  posthumous 
revenge  or  injury  in  her  hands. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  great  thing  to  be  able  to  do  what 
one  pleases,"  Mrs.  Travers  observed,  with  a  long- 
drawn  breath.  "  It  must  make  you  feel  that  what 
you  have  is  really  your  own.  But  that  can  never  be 
a  woman's  case  unless  she  is  an  heiress  in  her  own 
right,  as  Elizabeth  will  be  when  I  am  gone.  She  will 
be  like  you,  quite  free  to  leave  it  to  whom  she  likes." 

"  We  must  tie  her  down  in  her  marriage  settle- 
ments," said  the  Squire,  with  a  laugh. 

"  If  I  were  she,  I  should  not  let  myself  be  tied 
down.  I  should  keep  it  in  my  own  hands.  Money  is 
power,  don't  you  know  ?  I  never  was  in  that  position. 
My  husband's  money  was  almost  all  of  his  own  mak- 
ing, and  I  never  questioned  his  right  to  dispose  of  it. 


THE  SQUIRE.  131 

Lizzy  is  his  natural  heir,  as  we  never  had  any  children 
of  our  own,  his  natural-born  heir,  being  his  brother's 
daughter  —  while  I,"  she  continued  with  an  irony 
which  gave  her  a  certain  enjoyment,  "  was  only  his 
wife." 

Mr.  Mitford  was  completely  puzzled.  He  could  not 
but  ask  himself  whether  there  was  not  some  codicil, 
some  rider  to  the  will  which  he  had  seen,  which  made 
her  a  more  important  person  than  he  had  thought. 
If  it  were  only  after  her  death  that  Elizabeth  in- 
herited !  —  and  she  was  not  an  old  woman  from  his 
point  of  view.  He  continued  the  conversation  with 
unabated  cordiality,  and  took  his  leave  with  many 
pretty  speeches,  but  he  carried  with  him  subject  for 
thought.  If  after  all  there  should  be  nothing  to  be 
got  by  it  till  after  the  aunt's  death ! 

"  Dear  aunt,"  Elizabeth  said  when  he  was  gone, 
"  since  you  care  so  much  for  it,  I  wish  the  money  had 
been  yours,  and  yours  only  ;  but  may  we  not  keep 
that  grievance  to  ourselves  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  n't  speak  of  it,  Lizzy. 
It  is  no  grievance.  I  should  have  done  the  same 
whatever  had  happened ;  but  there  are  circumstances 
in  which  everybody,  and  a  gentleman  particularly, 
ought  to  know  the  exact  truth  "  — 

"  A  gentleman  particularly !  "  Elizabeth  repeated  in 
consternation  ;  but  the  meaning  of  the  phrase  entirely 
escaped  her,  though  it  seemed  to  mean  more  than 
reached  the  ear. 


XII. 
MR.  MITFORD'S  INVESTIGATIONS. 

MR.  MITFORD,  it  is  needless  to  say,  had  no  such 
ideas  in  his  mind  as  those  which  had  been  suggested 
by  his  remarks  to  his  widowed  neighbor.  As  a  gen- 
eral rule  he  disliked  women,  having  found  them  in 
his  way  all  his  life.  His  daughters  had  happily  gone 
off,  and  had  not  troubled  him,  —  all  but  Nina,  who 
was  not  a  disagreeable  plaything  in  her  way,  and  for 
whom  one  of  her  married  sisters  would  probably  pro- 
vide before  long.  He  did  not  contemplate  with  any 
pleasure  the  introduction  into  his  house  of  even  a 
Mrs.  Roger,  though  he  was  aware  that  a  certain  addi- 
tional respectability,  a  greater  claim  upon  the  regard 
of  your  neighbors,  follows  the  presence  of  a  mistress 
in  the  house.  He  scorned,  indeed,  the  notion  that  a 
house  could  be  better  ordered,  or  its  expenses  regu- 
lated better,  under  feminine  supervision  than  under 
his  own.  Nay,  he  knew  that  he  was  a  better  house- 
keeper than  any  woman,  as  a  man  when  he  gives  his 
mind  to  it  is  sure  to  be,  the  Squire  believed.  But  he 
was  a  little  disturbed  in  his  mind  by  Mrs.  Travers' 
statements.  He  had  looked  up  the  will  in  Doctors' 
Commons  without  making  any  fuss  about  it,  and  he 
was  aware  exactly  how  things  stood.  The  idea  of  a 
codicil  was  impossible,  since  that  must  have  been  reg- 
istered and  in  evidence  also.  But  nobody  could  say 
what  a  romantic  young  woman  might  do.  Elizabeth 


MR.   MITFORD'S  INVESTIGATIONS.        133 

might  personally  have  executed  some  deed  to  put  her- 
self in  subjection.  She  might  have  signed  some  in- 
strument which  she  could  not  annul,  to  please  her 
aunt,  or  in  accordance  with  some  whim  of  her  own. 
Women  are  full  of  whims.  There  is  nothing  they 
are  so  fond  of  doing  as  rushing  into  all  sorts  of  mud- 
dles with  lawyers  ;  it  gives  them  importance,  it  gives 
them  occupation,  and  an  adroit  man,  probably  an  old 
ally  of  Mrs.  Travers,  could  persuade  the  girl  into  any- 
thing. These  were  the  troublesome  thoughts  with 
which  Mr.  Mitford  went  down  the  hill,  not  any  idea 
of  proposing  himself  to  the  widow  to  fill  the  old  stock- 
broker's place. 

He  had  a  great  many  things  to  disturb  him,  it 
must  be  allowed.  Roger  had  gone  away,  refusing  or 
postponing  the  execution  of  his  father's  wishes,  and 
Mr.  Mitford,  who  was  not  without  sense,  began  to  see 
that  it  was  a  mistaken  policy  to  urge  upon  a  young 
man  a  marriage  which  there  was  any  hope  of  bring- 
ing about  in  a  more  natural  way.  He  felt  that  he 
had  taken  a  wrong  step,  and  that  the  probable  effect 
would  be  to  drive  his  son  further  off  from  Elizabeth, 
not  to  make  her  seem  more  desirable.  This  conscious- 
ness of  wrong  on  his  own  side  neither  made  his  reflec- 
tions more  pleasant,  nor  softened  his  anger.  When, 
indeed,  should  a  man  be  angry,  if  it  is  not  when  he 
has  made  a  mistake?  Roger's  abrupt  departure, 
though  he  was  aware  that  in  itself  it  was  no  bad 
thing,  had  left  him  in  that  impotence  of  displeasure 
which  is  one  of  the  greatest  burdens  of  the  choleric 
man.  For  there  was  nobody  to  find  fault  with,  no- 
body to  express  his  wrath  to  or  pour  out  its  vials  upon. 
The  servants  had  all  felt  it,  —  but  there  is  compara- 
tively little  satisfaction  in  wasting  your  rage  upon  ser- 


134  THE  SECOND  SON. 

vants,  —  and  Nina  had  fled  in  tears  from  the  break- 
fast-table, which,  instead  of  affording  relief,  had  only 
made  the  Squire  ashamed  of  himself.  The  two  broth- 
ers had  gone  away  together,  mutually  siding  with 
and  abetting  each  other,  forming  a  sort  of  conspiracy 
against  their  father's  lawful  power.  Words  could 
not  express  the  indignation  of  the  father  thus  driven 
to  silence.  He  had  taken  a  walk  to  Mount  Travers, 
partly  to  get  the  better  of  his  wrath,  partly  to  make 
up  for  the  shortcomings  of  those  "'cubs,"  as  he  called 
them  to  himself,  and  keep  the  way  open  in  case  of 
after  -  ameliorations  of  the  situation.  But  he  came 
away  much  sobered,  wondering  if,  after  all,  it  was  so 
much  worth  the  while.  Perhaps  he  had  been  a  little 
hasty ;  perhaps  it  might  be  just  as  well  to  wait  and 
see  how  things  would  turn  out.  After  slowly  revolv- 
ing this  in  his  mind,  Mr.  Mitford  returned  to  his 
original  way  of  thinking.  If  any  silly  thing  had  been 
done  by  Elizabeth,  she  must  be  made  to  alter  it ;  or 
if  she  had  been  so  much  more  silly  as  to  commit  her- 
self by  a  deed-poll,  or  any  of  those  confounded  legal 
instruments  which  are  popularly  considered  irrevoca- 
ble, why  then  —  at  the  worst  the  old  woman  could  not 
live  forever.  Mr.  Mitford  thought  remarks  upon  his 
own  age  were  in  the  very  worst  taste,  and  Mrs.  Tra- 
vers was  not  by  several  years  so  old  as  he  was  ;  but  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  characterize  her  as  the  "  old  wo- 
man," and  to  conclude  that  she  could  not  live  very 
long,  even  had  her  niece  been  silly  enough  to  make 
any  effort  to  put  back  the  "  life  interest,"  as  she  called 
it,  into  her  hands.  No,  there  could  not  surely  be  any 
great  harm  done,  there ;  if  that  confounded  boy  had 
not  run  away  just  at  the  least  desirable  moment.  Mr. 
Mitford  had  a  consciousness  that  it  was  he  who  had 


MR.   MITFORD'S  INVESTIGATIONS.        135 

driven  Roger  away,  which  made  him  more  angry  still 
at  the  "  confounded  boy." 

The  nearest  way  from  Mount  Travers  was  by  the 
West  Lodge,  which,  as  it  was  out  of  the  way  for 
most  ordinary  purposes,  seldom  attracted  the  Squire's 
attention.  When  he  perceived  it  in  the  distance, 
however,  there  came  back  to  his  mind  something  that 
he  had  heard  of  Roger's  visits  there.  Mr.  Mitford 
was  not  strait-laced ;  he  thought  the  presence  of  a 
pretty  daughter  in  the  keeper's  lodge  was  a  likely 
enough  explanation  of  a  young  man's  visits ;  and 
though  he  considered  it  right  to  put  a  stop  to  such 
things,  which  always  eventually  do  a  man  harm,  yet 
he  was  at  the  same  time  of  the  opinion  that  among 
such  people,  as  in  other  classes,  it  was  their  own  busi- 
ness to  take  care  of  their  girls.  He  might  have 
launched  a  thunderbolt  at  his  son  for  mixing  himself 
up  in  any  discreditable  story,  but  at  the  same  time  he 
would  have  felt  that  if  Blowsabella  thrust  herself  into 
the  way  she  must  take  the  consequences.  It  occurred 
to  him  at  the  moment  that  he  would  look  in,  as  he 
passed,  and  see  what  Blowsabella  was  like,  and  per- 
haps give  her  mother  a  word ;  for  the  last  thing  that 
was  to  be  desired  was  any  scandal,  so  long  as  there 
was  even  a  chance  of  Elizabeth  Travers  and  her 
wealth. 

He  marched  into  the  little  house  with  the  ease  of 
a  man  to  whom  it  belonged,  and  took  Mrs.  Ford's 
frightened  welcome  without  paying  much  attention  to 
it.  "  Ford  out  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I  dare  say  you  '11 
do  as  well.  All  right  about  the  house,  eh  ?  No  leak- 
ages ?  drains  in  order  ?  I  like  these  things  to  be 
seen  to  in  the  spring,  if  anything  's  wrong.  It  used 
to  be  thought  rather  marshy  about  here." 


136  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Ford,  with  another 
curtsy,  "  it 's  as  dry  as  a  bone,  sir.  We  've  had  no 
floods  here." 

"  Well,  that 's  a  good  thing,"  said  the  Squire,  glanc- 
ing round.  He  was  looking  for  the  girl,  but  he  could 
not  say  so.  "You  have  made  the  place  look  very 
comfortable,"  he  added,  approvingly,  "and  I  hear 
you  've  got  a  nice  little  garden.  What,  another  sit- 
ting-room, too !  I  never  knew  these  lodges  were  so 
large." 

Mrs.  Ford's  mind  was  sadly  divided  between  pride 
and  alarm.  When  a  poor  woman  has  a  daughter  like 
Lily,  it  is  hard  not  to  want  to  show  her,  especially 
when  there  is  a  parlor  like  Lily's  parlor  in  addition  to 
be  shown  off.  But  she  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that 
the  Squire  meant  no  good  by  his  visit,  and  that  it 
might  be  wise  to  keep  these  glories  of  her  life  to  her- 
self. She  had  no  time,  however,  to  think ;  for  while 
Mr.  Mitford  directed  his  keen  eyes  to  the  little  dark 
passage  evidently  leading  to  that  best  room  which  is 
the  ideal  of  such  homely  housekeepers,  there  sud- 
denly appeared  in  the  doorway  before  him,  floating  in 
with  all  the  ease  of  one  at  home,  such  a  radiant  ap- 
parition as  took  away  the  Squire's  breath.  Her 
mother  said  afterward,  in  awe -stricken  tones,  that 
never  before  had  Lily  looked  so  beautiful.  The  west- 
ern sun  came  in  at  the  cottage  window,  and  just 
reached  her,  touching  her  hair  till  it  glittered  as  if 
it  were  all  mixed  with  threads  of  gold.  In  color,  in 
bloom,  in  everything  that  goes  toward  that  first  daz- 
zle of  physical  perfection  which  the  French  call  the 
beaute  de  diable,  Lily  was  at  her  best.  She  did  not 
know  there  was  any  one  there,  therefore  she  was  free 
of  any  of  the  little  affectations  of  self-consciousness ; 


MR.  M1TFORVS  INVESTIGATIONS.        137 

and  when  she  did  perceive  that  there  was  some  one, 
and  who  it  was,  Lily's  first  thoughts  were  not  of  her 
own  appearance,  nor  of  the  impression  she  would  like 
to  make.  She  had  a  sense  of  fright,  a  sort  of  sus- 
pended animation  till  she  should  know  what  the  object 
of  this  visit  was.  The  Squire  stood  before  her,  as- 
tounded, not  knowing  what  to  think.  He  plucked 
off  his  hat,  which  he  had  (naturally,  according  to  his 
ideas)  kept  on  his  head  when  he  went  into  the  keep- 
er's cottage,  a  remarkable  evidence  not  only  of  the 
effect  produced  upon  him,  but  of  the  bewilderment  of 
his  mind  under  this  sudden  impression.  He  thought 
for  the  first  moment  that  it  was  some  young  lady  of 
the  district,  who  had  come  to  give  Mrs.  Ford  orders 
about  needle-work,  or  to  visit  her  in  a  benign  and  an- 
gelic way,  as  ladies  are  in  the  habit  of  visiting  poor 
women ;  but  when  he  had  taken  a  rapid  note  of  the 
circumstances,  of  the  young  lady's  uncovered  head 
and  in-door  dress,  and  her  evident  air  of  being  at 
home,  Mr.  Mitford  could  not  but  gasp  with  astonish- 
ment and  consternation.  "I  —  don't  think  I  have 
met  this  —  young  lady  before,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  sir,  it 's  no  young  lady,"  cried  Mrs.  Ford, 
tremulously  enveloping  her  arms  in  her  apron,  and 
making  an  unnecessary  curtsy,  which  brought  shame 
to  Lily's  face  ;  "  it 's  my  little  girl,  as  madam  was  so 
kind  to.  You  've  not  seen  her,  sir,  for  years  and  years, 
and  she 's  grown  up,  and  had  a  fine  eddication ;  but 
bless  you,  sir,  it 's  only  Lily,  it 's  my  little  girl." 

"  Lily !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  with  a  sort  of  roar. 
He  did  not  put  his  hat  on  again,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  but  held  it  behind  him,  ashamed  of  the 
politeness  to  which  he  had  been  driven. 

"  Make  your  curtsy  to  the  Squire,  child,"  said  her 


138  THE   SECOND  SON. 

mother,  in  a  loud  whisper ;  and  then  she  added,  once 
more  trembling,  and  smiling  with  deprecating  civility, 
"  Will  you  step  into  the  parlor,  sir  ?  This  ain't  a 
place  for  the  likes  of  you." 

"  Oh,  there  's  a  parlor,  too !  "  muttered  the  Squire, 
stupefied.  He  felt  that  he  must  at  least  follow  the 
adventure,  to  the  end,  though  some  confused  associa- 
tion with  the  words  "  walk  into  my  parlor "  came 
across  him,  bewildering  and  confusing  his  mind  still 
more.  The  bright  vision  melted  away,  leaving  the 
entrance  free,  and  the  Squire  stamped  through  it, 
making  a  great  noise  with  his  heavy  boots  and 
blundering  tread;  for  the  little  angle  of  a  passage 
was  dark,  and  he  not  adroit  enough  to  find  his  way, 
as  young  eyes  can  do.  Mrs.  Ford  followed  humbly, 
scarcely  knowing,  between  fright  and  pride,  what  she 
was  doing.  She  felt  that  the  sight  of  Lily's  bower 
would  complete  the  evident  effect  made  upon  the 
master  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  that  unexpected 
figure ;  but  whether  he  might  look  with  favor  upon 
these  strange  adjuncts  to  a  keeper's  cottage,  or 
whether  he  might  roar  out  an  order  to  somebody  to 
cast  all  such  unsuitable  accessories  away,  she  could 
not  tell.  He  might  condemn  the  furniture,  but  he 
could  not  pronounce  any  decree  of  separation  from 
Lily,  the  mother  in  her  panic  thought. 

"  Hallo ! "  Mr.  Mitford  cried.  He  was  not  much 
impressed  by  the  room.  He  considered  it  rather  a 
poor  thing  in  the  way  of  a  flytrap.  "  Will  you  walk 
into  my  parlor  ? "  By  the  time  he  got  there  the 
Squire  had  recovered  himself,  and  felt  like  pulling  all 
the  delicate  cobwebs  to  pieces,  and  tearing  to  the 
ground  the  machinery  of  conquest.  Lily  had  gone 
before  him;  she  had  made  no  curtsy.  She  turned 


MR.   MITFORD'S  INVESTIGATIONS.        139 

round  with  a  little  gesture  of  welcome,  putting  a  chair 
for  the  visitor  as  a  young  lady  might  have  done,  not  like 
the  keeper's  little  girl.  Mr.  Mitford  drew  the  offered 
chair  out  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  sat  down 
upon  it  facing  the  two  women,  without  the  least  sug- 
gestion that  they  also  should  seat  themselves.  Had 
Mrs.  Ford  the  keeper's  wife  sat  down  in  his  presence 
without  a  special  invitation,  he  would  have  thought 
the  world  was  coming  to  an  end. 

"  So  this  is  your  little  girl,"  he  said.  He  cast  a 
careless  glance  at  Lily,  scanning  her  over  from  her 
beautiful  head  to  the  neat  little  shoes  which  she  was 
so  careful  about,  noting  all  her  little  ladylike  preten- 
sions, and  the  faint  astonishment  at  himself  which 
began  to  show  in  her  eyes.  "  She  is  a  well-grown 
girl,"  he  said  calmly,  "and  I  see  you  keep  her  very 
nicely.  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  her,  Mrs. 
Ford?" 

"To  do  with  her,  sir?"  The  keeper's  wife  was 
choking  with  mortification  and  humbled  pride.  A 
well-grown  girl !  —  was  that  all  the  praise  that  was  to 
be  awarded  to  her  Lily  ?  In  her  outraged  devotion 
she  could  have  struck  the  man  before  whom  she  trem- 
bled, the  master  upon  whom  everything  depended, 
whom  she  dared  not  offend.  Her  voice  died  away  in 
her  throat. 

"  What  kind  of  a  place  do  you  want  for  her,  —  a 
lady's  maid,  or  in  the  nursery  ?  I  suppose  of  course 
at  that  age  she 's  been  out.  You  can't  afford  to  keep 
great  girls  like  that  idle  at  home,  Mrs.  Ford." 

"  Oh,  sir  ! "  the  mother  began.  It  was  difficult  to 
form  any  words.  And  Lily,  who  had  stood  silent  first 
in  consternation,  then  in  wrath,  hearing  herself  so 
discussed,  here  felt  that  she  could  bear  no  more. 


140  THE   SECOND   SON, 

"  Mother,"  said  the  girl,  "  if  you  want  me,  you  will 
find  ine  in  my  room.  I  am  going  up-stairs." 

"  Oh,  Lily !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ford.  It  was  a  dou- 
ble trouble.  She  did  not  know  which  was  the  more 
difficult  to  deal  with,  the  terrible  master  sitting  there 
in  the  middle  of  her  beautiful  room,  discussing  her 
beautiful  daughter  as  if  she  had  been  a  mere  village 
girl,  or  Lily,  who  could  not  bear  to  be  so  looked  at, 
who  dared  the  Squire  and  all  that  he  could  do.  The 
mother's  heart  was  torn  in  two  ;  she  did  not  know  to 
which  she  should  make  her  appeal. 

"  Does  n't  like  to  be  interfered  with,  I  suppose  ; 
prefers  to  set  up  for  a  lady  at  home.  Mrs.  Ford,  1 
fear  that  you  are  preparing  trouble  for  yourself,  and 
that  you  have  given  her  a  great  deal  too  much  of  her 
own  way." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  protested  the  keeper's  wife,  almost 
sobbing.  "  You  are  in  a  mistake,  sir,  —  indeed,  you 
are  in  a  mistake." 

"Ah,  that's  possible  enough,"  said  the  merciless 
Squire.  "  I  am  sure  I  hope  it  is  a  mistake.  I  have 
been  taking  some  dressed-up  milliner's  girl  for  your 
daughter  ?  I  am  quite  glad  to  hear  it.  I  could  not 
think  how  anything  like  that  should  belong  to  my 
honest  Ford  and  you." 

"  Sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Ford,  in  a  tone  which  indignation 
and  horror  made  steady,  but  which  came  out  with  a 
rush  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  "  Ford  and  me  we 
have  served  you  honest  for  many  a  year  —  but  our 
Lily,  sir,  as  madam  was  so  good  to,  she 's  more  to  us 
nor  master  and  service  and  all.  It 's  not  her  fault  if 
she  's  more  like  the  quality  than  she  is  like  her  father 
and  me." 

"  Do  you  call  that  being  like  the  quality,  you  silly 


MR.   MIT  FORD'S   INVESTIGATIONS.        141 

woman?"  asked  the  Squire  with  a  laugh.  "Take  my 
advice,  Mrs.  Ford,  send  her  to  service.  I  dare  say 
Mrs.  Simmons  will  help  you  to  hear  of  something; 
but  don't  spoil  your  girl,  if  that  is  your  girl,  by  keep- 
ing her  at  home.  She  will  only  get  into  mischief. 
There  's  a  number  of  young  fellows  about,  and  this 
parlor  of  yours  is  deucedly  like  the  spider's  parlor, 
where  she  invited  the  fly,  don't  you  remember?  'Will 
you  walk  into  my  parlor  ?  said  the  spider  to  the  fly.' 
By  Jove !  I  'd  send  her  off  before  the  week  was  out, 
if  I  were  you." 

With  this  he  rose  abruptly,  shook  himself,  put  on 
his  hat,  and  with  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand  by  way  of 
good-by  strode  again  through  the  narrow  passage,  and 
emerged  into  the  open  air  with  a  "  Pouff !  "  of  re- 
strained breath.  He  had  made  himself  as  disagree- 
able and  offensive  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  be,  and  he 
had  a  certain  satisfaction  in  the  certainty  of  having 
done  so.  But  even  this  did  not  neutralize  the  shock 
which  he  had  himself  received.  This  was  the  house 
which  Roger  had  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting,  and 
this  the  keeper's  daughter  who  was  said  to  be  the 
attraction.  Mr.  Mitford  was  not  brutal  by  nature, 
though  he  had  done  his  best  to  appear  so.  He  knew 
his  son  well  enough  to  know  that  Roger  was  no  liber- 
tine, but  yet  he  had  felt  that  if  Blowsabella  put  her- 
self in  the  young  man's  way  the  consequences  must  be 
on  her  own  silly  head.  He  had  no  exaggerated  sym- 
pathy for  the  rustic  flirt,  however  tragical  might  be 
the  circumstances  into  which  her  folly  might  betray 
her.  But  all  his  ideas  about  Blowsabella  had  died 
out  when  that  radiant  young  figure  suddenly  walked 
into  the  doorway  of  Mrs.  Ford's  kitchen.  He  had 
plucked  off  his  hat  in  his  surprise,  and  all  the  courage 


142  THE  SECOND  SON. 

had  gone  out  of  him.  This  was  no  Blowsabella,  this 
was  no  buxom,  forward,  romping  girl,  to  meet  with  a 
reward  for  her  folly.  The  consequences,  if  any  fol- 
lowed, so  far  as  Roger  was  concerned,  would  be  disas- 
trous for  the  young  man  and  the  family,  not  for  the 
young  woman.  This  was  what  had  given  a  sting  to 
his  tongue  and  brutality  to  his  look.  If  it  had  only 
been  Blowsabella,  he  would  have  been  kind  and  sorry 
for  her.  But  this  was  something  that  must  be  crushed 
in  the  bud. 

Curious  to  think  that  from  Elizabeth  he  should 
have  walked  direct  into  this  adverse  camp,  into  the 
heart  of  the  other  influence  which  made  Roger  insen- 
sible to  Elizabeth!  These  two  images  withdrew 
themselves  from  the  rest,  and  came  and  walked  with 
him  as  he  hurried  across  his  own  park,  striking  with 
his  cane  at  any  taller  growth,  angry  and  anxious, 
turning  over  in  his  mind  the  strange  combinations  of 
which  he  had  been  unconscious  before.  The  Squire 
knew,  the  conviction  flashing  across  his  mind  like  an 
arrow,  that  in  Roger's  place  it  would  not  have  been 
the  high-toned  and  serious  Elizabeth,  in  the  maturity 
of  twenty-five,  that  he  would  have  chosen,  but  the 
other,  in  that  dazzling  early  bloom  of  hers,  that  ap- 
parition of  light  in  the  dimness  of  the  cottage.  Good 
heavens!  Ford  the  keeper's  daughter!  To  see  her 
seated  at  the  head  of  the  table  at  Melcombe  would  be 
a  revolution  indeed. 


XIII. 

NINA'S  VIEWS. 

IT  was  very  surprising  to  the  Squire  to  find  himself 
at  table  with  no  other  companion  save  Nina,  the  only 
member  of  the  family  left  at  home.  When  he  had 
been  alone  in  the  house  before,  this  little  person  had 
been  still  in  the  school-room,  and  her  father  had  not 
been  incommoded  by  her  company ;  and  to  see  her 
rise  from  her  seat,  as  he  passed  through,  forgetting  all 
about  her,  and  timidly  precede  him  to  the  dining- 
room,  took  him  entirely  aback.  He  felt,  somehow, 
that  she  must  disappear  with  her  brothers,  and  that 
his  dinner  would  be  the  easy  and  solitary  "square 
meal  "  which  it  had  been  many  times  before,  without 
the  least  idea  on  his  part  that  it  was  dreary  to  be 
alone.  She  was  not  seated  even  at  the  other  end  of 
the  table,  where  he  could  have  ignored  her,  but,  by 
the  considerateness  of  the  butler,  who  thought  Miss 
Nina  would  feel  lonely,  her  place  had  been  laid  quite 
near  her  father's,  so  that  they  might  entertain  each 
other  mutually.  The  situation  was  one  for  which  Mr. 
Mitford  was  not  prepared.  He  had  nothing  to  say  to 
his  own  little  girl.  Politeness  might  have  suggested  a 
few  nothings  to  answer  the  uses  of  conversation  with 
other  juvenile  members  of  Nina's  class,  but  a  man  has 
no  need  to  be  polite  to  his  own  child,  and  he  had  not 
a  notion  what  Nina  was  capable  of  talking  about,  or 
if  there  was  anything,  indeed,  that  was  likely  to  inter- 


144:  THE  SECOND  SON. 

est  her  among  the  subjects  with  which  he  was  ac- 
quainted. Asking  her  rather  gruffly  if  she  would  take 
soup,  if  she  would  like  some  fish,  served  the  purpose 
for  a  little ;  but  when  it  came  to  the  beef  and  mutton 
stage,  which  was  with  the  Squire,  an  old-fashioned 
Englishman,  priding  himself  on  an  excellent  appetite, 
a  prolonged  period,  the  sight  of  her,  saying  nothing, 
eating  nothing,  sitting  with  little  hands  clasped  before 
her,  ready  with  a  timid  smile  whenever  he  looked  at 
her,  became  more  and  more  an  embarrassment  to  him. 
He  broke  forth  at  last  with  a  question  in  which  his 
own  ennui  found  vent,  though  it  appeared  to  be  in- 
tended to  gauge  hers :  "Is  n't  it  a  great  bore  to  you, 
Nina,  to  sit  at  table  with  me  alone?" 

"  Oh,  no,  papa,"  cried  Nina,  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"Not  a  bore?  "Well,  you  are  a  better  creature  than 
I  am,  which  is  very  likely  at  your  age.  Are  n't  you 
sorry,  then,  that  your  brothers  are  away?" 

"Very  sorry,  papa,"  Nina  answered;  and  then 
there  was  a  pause  again. 

"  It 's  your  turn  now  to  fire  away,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment.  "  I  've  asked  you  two  questions,  now  you 
can  ask  me  two." 

"  Oh,  may  I  ?  "  said  Nina,  faster  than  seemed  pos- 
sible, clapping  her  hands  softly  with  apparent  pleasure. 
"  That  is  exactly  what  I  should  like :  for  I  want  above 
all  things  to  ask  you  why  it  was  that  Roger  and  Ed- 
mund went  away  so  very  suddenly  ?  They  said  noth- 
ing of  it  at  dinner,  and  yet  they  were  off  by  the  early 
train." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  Squire,  with  his  mouth  full, 
"  they  had  got  tired  of  the  country." 

"  No,  I  'm  sure  it  was  n't  that ;  they  are  both  fond 
of  the  country.  Either  they  heard  some  news,  or 


NINA'S   VIEWS.  145 

something  happened,  or  perhaps  you  scolded  them. 
You  talked  very  loud  after  dinner,  and  you  were  angry 
with  me  when  you  dashed  in  and  found  me  sitting 
near  the  door." 

"  That  was  because  I  don't  want  you  to  get  into  that 
mean  sort  of  womanish  way.  You  looked  as  if  you 
had  been  listening  at  the  door." 

"  Oh,  no,  papa,  never ;  but  I  always  sit  at  that  end 
of  the  room  for  company.  To  hear  voices  is  some- 
thing ;  it  makes  you  feel  as  if  you  were  not  quite  alone, 
though  you  may  not  hear  a  word  they  say." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Mr.  Mitford.  He  resolved  from  that 
moment  to  put  a  guard  upon  his  tongue ;  for  if  it  is 
only  saying  "  deuce,"  and  other  words  that  begin  with 
a  c?,  a  man  woidd  rather  not  say  these  things  in  a 
girl's  ear. 

"  And  when  I  saw  them  go  away,  I  thought  that 
perhaps  you  had  been  scolding  them,  papa." 

"  Scolding  does  not  make  so  much  difference  at  your 
brothers'  age  as  at  yours,"  he  said,  softening  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"  Does  n't  it  ?  Roger  had  an  angry  look,  as  if  he 
were  going  against  his  will,  and  Edmund  was  very 
anxious  to  get  him  to  go.  The  servants  say" —  But 
here  Nina  pursed  up  her  mouth  suddenly,  perceiving 
Mr.  Larkins,  the  butler,  in  the  background.  It  was 
difficult  to  see  the  attendants,  except  the  footman  in 
his  white  stockings,  which  were  visible  low  down, 
going  round  the  table  ;  for  the  lamp  which  hung  over 
it  was  shaded,  and  left  everything  beyond  in  an  un- 
certain aspect.  But  she  saw  Larkins  like  a  shadow 
standing  by  the  great  sideboard,  and  her  mouth  was 
closed. 

"  What  do  the  servants  say?" 


146  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  I  will  tell  you  afterwards,  papa,"  the  little  girl 
said. 

"Prudent,  by  Jove,  that  little  thing,"  the  Squire 
said  to  himself,  as  if  this  had  been  a  crowning  wonder. 
He  did  not  speak  again  till  the  beef  had  gone,  and 
something  of  a  savory  character,  replacing  the  ex- 
hausted game,  smoked  upon  his  plate,  while  Nina  ate 
her  rice  pudding.  Then  he  resumed,  quite  unconscious 
that  such  keen  observers  as  his  child  and  his  servant 
could  easily  trace  the  line  of  connection  between  his 
present  utterance  and  what  had  been  last  said. 

"Do  you  ever  pass  by  the  West  Lodge  in  your 
little  walks?" 

"Oh,  the  Fords',  papa?  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  cried 
Nina.  "  Lily  is  just  a  little  older  than  me.  I  have 
always  known  her.  Oh,  is  n't  she  pretty  ?  We  all 
think  so  in  this  house." 

"Who  thinks  so?  I  don't  understand  what  you 
mean  by  '  all,' "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  with  lowering 
looks. 

"They  are  a  little  jealous  of  her,"  said  Nina, 
"  which  is  not  wonderful,  for  she  does  not  look  like 
them  at  all.  She  is  quite  a  lady,  Mrs.  Simmons  says. 
You  may  think  how  lovely  she  must  be  when  Simmons 
allows  it.  They  say  she  has  a  great  many  admirers, 
and  that  "  —  Here  Nina  gave  a  little  cough  of  intel- 
ligence, and  made  a  slight  gesture  with  her  hand  to- 
wards the  flowers  on  the  table.  "Him,  you  know," 
she  said,  nodding  her  head. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  the  Squire,  con- 
founded. Nina's  confidential  communication  being 
more  than  any  man's  patience  could  bear. 

Nina  drew  closer  to  him,  and  put  her  hand  to  her 
mouth.  "  The  gardener,  you  know,"  she  said,  "  but 


NINA'S  VIEWS.  147 

I  don't  like  to  mention  his  name  aloud,  because  of  the 
men." 

"Oh!"  murmured  Mr.  Mitford.  He  had  been 
very  careless  of  his  little  girl:  he  had  paid  no  more 
attention  to  her,  as  she  grew  up,  than  if  she  had  been 
one  of  the  hounds.  But  in  that  moment  he  got  his 
reward.  "  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  angrily,  "  that  you 
talk  like  a  little  village  gossip,  Nina?  What  have 
you  to  do  with  such  stories  ?  If  I  hear  you  discoursing 
again  upon  the  servants  and  their  love  affairs,  or  any 
other  affairs,  I  shall  send  you  back  to  the  school-room, 
and  you  shall  not  appear  here  again." 

Poor  Nina  gave  a  little  frightened  cry.  She  did 
not  know  what  she  had  done.  The  color  went  out  of 
her  cheeks.  She  sat  quaking,  thrown  back  upon  her- 
self, her  eyes  filling  with  tears  that  she  dared  not  let 
fall.  "  Oh,  papa !  "  she  said,  faintly.  This  threat 
penetrated  to  her  very  heart,  for  no  one  could  know  so 
well  what  the  school-room  was  as  the  last  of  the  little 
victims  who  had  languished  there,  to  be  delivered  only 
by  marriage.  Nina  saw  with  very  clear  prevision  that 
it  was  very  unlikely  she  ever  could  be  emancipated  by 
marriage,  seeing  that  she  never  met  any  one,  and  that 
nobody  ever  came  to  Melcombe  who  was  not,  she  said 
to  herself,  half  a  hundred.  The  poor  child's  heart 
sank  within  her.  She  had  been  bolder  than  usual,  en- 
couraged by  her  father's  attention  to  her  little  chatter, 
and  she  did  not  know  into  what  pitfall  it  was  that  she 
had  dropped.  She  sat  quite  still,  sometimes  lifting  a 
pair  of  wistful  eyes  towards  him,  while  the  wearisome 
dinner  concluded.  The  servants,  stealing  about  in  the 
shade,  with  their  subdued  steps  silently  offering  all 
the  fruits  of  the  dessert,  which  she  would  have  liked 
very  much,  but  had  not  the  courage  to  touch,  were  like 


148  THE  SECOND  SON. 

ghosts  to  Nina ;  and  her  father's  severe  face,  in  the 
light  of  the  lamp,  shone  upon  her  like  that  of  an 
awful  judge  who  should  presently  pronounce  sentence 
upon  her.  Larkins  and  his  satellites  were  a  kind 
of  protection  ;  they  saved  her  temporarily,  at  least, 
from  receiving  her  sentence,  and  when  she  saw  them 
preparing  to  go  away,  her  heart  sank.  The  Squire 
did  not  say  a  word  during  the  conclusion  of  the  dinner. 
He  did  not  hurry  over  it ;  he  took  everything  as  lei- 
surely as  usual,  showing  no  burning  desire  to  proceed 
to  the  execution  of  Nina.  But  in  this  she  could  not 
take  any  comfort,  not  seeing  in  reality  how  it  was. 

When  the  servants  had  left  the  room,  Mr.  Mitford, 
after  a  brief  interval,  spoke,  and  his  voice  seemed  to 
fill  all  the  room  with  echoes.  Nina  was  so  paralyzed 
with  fear  that  she  did  not  perceive  its  softened  tone. 

"  You  have  no  business  with  the  affairs  of  the  ser- 
vants. Keeper  and  gardener,  or  whatever  they  are, 
you  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  It  is  not  becom- 
ing in  the  young  lady  of  the  house  to  discuss  their 
concerns  or  intentions  ;  remember  that,  Nina." 

"  Yes,  papa,"  assented  the  girl,  scarcely  venturing 
to  breathe. 

"  However,"  said  the  Squire,  "now  those  fellows  are 
gone  who  have  ears  for  everything,  you  may  tell  me 
what  you  know  about  this  business.  That  daughter 
of  Ford's  is  going  to  marry  the  gardener,  is  she  ?  And 
a  very  good  thing,  too ;  it  will  keep  her  out  of  the 
way  of  mischief :  and  when  is  that  to  be  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  papa,"  said  Nina,  without  raising 
her  eyes. 

"  You  seemed  to  know  all  about  it  a  few  minutes 
ago.  I  did  n't  mean  to  frighten  you,  child.  Speak 
up,  and  tell  me  what  you  do  know." 


NfNA'S  VIEWS.  149 

Nina  began  to  pluck  up  a  little  courage.  "It  is 
only  what  they  say.  They  all  think  a  great  deal  of 
Mr.  Witherspoon,  the  gardener.  They  say  he  is  quite 
the  gentleman,  and  so  clever.  They  think  he  is  too 
good  for  Lily.  Mr.  Witherspoon  was  once  after  Miss 
Brown,  the  steward's  sister.  You  know,  papa,  she  is 
S.otch,  too." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Mitford,  with  a  nod  of  his  head ; 
"  go  on.  So  little  Ford  has  cut  out  the  red-haired 
one  ?  I  should  n't  have  thought  by  Miss  Lily's  looks 
she  would  be  content  with  such  small  game." 

"  Oh,  she  is  not  in  love  with  him  at  all,"  cried  Nina, 
forgetting  her  caution.  "  It  is  all  her  father  and 
mother,  just  like  a  story-book.  But  some  take  Miss 
Brown's  side.  Old  Simmons  is  all  for  Lily ;  she  is 
always  having  private  talks  with  Mr.  Witherspoon. 
They  say  she  wants  to  get  her  married  and  out  of  the 
way ;  for,  papa,"  said  the  girl,  dropping  her  voice,  and 
putting  out  her  hand  with  the  instinct  of  a  true  gossip 
for  the  dramatic  climax,  "  papa,  they  say  that  all  the 
gentlemen  are  always  going  to  the  West  Lodge. 
They  all  think  so  much  of  her,  for  to  be  pretty  is  all 
the  gentlemen  think  of ;  and  they  say  that  Roger  "  — 

"  All  the  gentlemen  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  with  a  sud- 
den quiver  of  rage  which  appalled  Nina.  "  What  do 
you  mean  by  all  the  gentlemen,  you  little  gossip,  you 
confounded  little  —  How  dare  you  say  anything 
about  Roger !  How  dare  you  discuss  your  brother 
with  the  servants !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
Roger  —  that  Roger  "  — 

"Oh,  papa,"  cried  Nina,  beginning  to  weep,  "  /don't 
talk  about  Roger.  I  only  hear  what  they  say." 

"  What  they  say  !  The  people  in  the  servants'  hall  ? 
By  Jove,"  said  the  Squire,  "  you  ought  to  go  out  to 


150  THE   SECOND  SON, 

service  yourself;  you  seem  just  of  their  kind."  He 
got  up  in  his  impatience,  and  began  to  pace  about  the 
room,  as  he  had  done  on  the  previous  night.  "  I  have 
a  nice  family,"  he  went  on.  "  A  son  who  is  after  Lily 
Ford,  the  keeper's  daughter ;  and  you,  you  little  sou- 
brette,  you  waiting-maid,  you  Cinderella  !  I  believe, 
by  Jove,  you  have  been  changed  at  nurse,  and  it  is 
Lily  Ford  who  is  the  lady,  and  you  that  should  be 
sent  to  the  servants'  hall." 

Nina  sank  altogether  under  this  storm.  She  began 
to  cry  and  sob.  Instead  of  getting  better,  as  things 
had  promised  to  do,  here  was  everything  worse  and 
worse !  The  school-room,  with  which  she  had  been 
threatened  first,  was  bad  enough;  but  the  servants' 
hall!  As  the  Squire  went  on  enumerating  his  own 
misfortunes,  piling  darker  and  darker  shades  of  repro- 
bation upon  the  children  who  were  bringing  him  shame, 
fear  and  dismay  overwhelmed  the  poor  little  girl.  She 
was  at  last  unable  to  keep  down  her  misery,  and  ran 
and  flung  herself,  half  on  the  ground  before  him,  half 
clinging  to  his  elbow.  "  Oh,  papa !  send  me  to  Geral- 
dine  or  Amy, — they  will  take  me  in  ;  send  me  to 
aunt  Dacres ;  send  me  to  school,  even,  if  you  are  so 
very,  very  angry  ;  but  don't  send  me  to  service  ;  don't 
put  me  in  a  place  like  one  of  the  maids.  Oh,  papa, 
papa  !  I  am  your  own  daughter,  whatever  you  may 
think.  I  am  Nina,  —  indeed  I  am,  I  am  !  "  cried  the 
girl  in  a  paroxysm  that  shook  her  little  frame,  and 
even  shook  his  great  bulk.  He  was  moved  in  spite 
of  himself  by  the  passion  of  the  girl's  panic  and  the 
matter-of-fact  acceptance  of  his  unmeaning  threats, 
which  to  Nina,  with  her  childlike  apprehension, 
seemed  so  horribly  real  and  imminent.  He  took  hold 
of  her  shoulder,  which  was  thrown  against  him,  the 


NINA'S  VIEWS.  151 

slight,  round,  soft  form,  in  its  white  muslin,  all  quiver- 
ing with  measureless  fear. 

"  Get  up,  child,"  he  said  ;  "  sit  down,  dry  your  eyes, 
don't  be  a  little  fool.  Of  course  I  know  you  are  Nina. 
Do  you  think  I  can  stop  to  weigh  every  word,  when 
you  drive  me  out  of  my  senses  ?  Of  course  I  don't 
mean  that.  But  you  ought  n't  to  listen  to  the  servants 
and  their  gossip,  or  put  yourself  on  a  level  with  the 
maids  ;  you  ought  to  have  been  taught  better,  you 
ought " — 

"  Oh,  papa,  I  know  it 's  wrong,"  cried  Nina,  rubbing 
her  head  against  his  arm  and  clasping  it  with  both  her 
hands,  "  but  I  have  never  had  any  one  to  care  for  me, 
and  I  have  no  one  to  talk  to,  and  it 's  so  lonely." 

He  took  a  little  trouble  to  soothe  her,  partly  moved 
by  her  words,  and  partly  by  the  childlike  clinging ; 
and  presently  dismissed  her  up-stairs,  bidding  her  go 
to  bed  and  take  care  of  herself,  an  injunction  which 
Nina  obeyed  by  holding  a  long  chatter  with  her  maid, 
in  which  she  disclosed  the  fact  that  papa  had  given 
her  a  dreadful  scolding  for  something  she  had  said 
about  Lily  Ford.  Mr.  Mitford  returned  to  his  wine 
with  thoughts  that  were  not  at  all  agreeable.  His  son 
publicly  reported  to  be  "  after  "  that  roadside  beauty, 
his  daughter  talking  like  a  little  waiting- worn  an,  full 
of  the  gossip  of  the  servants'  hall,  —  these  were  not 
pleasant  reflections.  He  had  taken  a  certain  pride  in 
the  young  men  who  were  his  representatives  in  the 
world,  which  stood  more  or  less  in  the  place  of  pa- 
ternal love  ;  and  even  Nina,  of  whom  he  knew  little 
more  than  the  outside,  had  gratified  occasionally, 
when  he  thought  of  her  at  all,  that  rudimentary  senti- 
ment. They  had  all  done  him  credit,  more  or  less. 
But  there  was  not  much  credit  to  be  got  out  of  a  little 


152  THE   SECOND  SON. 

thing  who  talked  like,  a  village  gossip,  nor  out  of 
probably  a  degrading  marriage  orT  the  part  of  the 
young  man  who  considered  himself  his  heir.  "My 
heir,  by  Jove ! "  the  Squire  said  to  himself.  The 
veins  stood  out  on  his  forehead  and  on  his  hand  as  he 
clenched  it  and  struck  it  against  the  table.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  bear  with  the  follies  of  his  children,  and 
this  was  not  the  first  occasion  upon  which  he  had  re- 
minded himself  that  they  were  all  entirely  at  his 
mercy.  Let  the  boy  take  but  one  step  towards  the  ac- 
complishment of  that  act  of  madness,  and  he  should 
see,  he  should  see !  No  gamekeeper's  daughter  should 
ever  be  received  at  Melcombe,  much  less  placed  at  the 
head  of  that  table  where  he  himself  had  so  long  sat. 
A  hot  flush  of  fury  came  over  him  at  the  thought. 
If  that  was  what  the  fool  was  thinking  of,  if  that  was 
what  had  made  him  turn  away  from  Elizabeth  Trav- 
ers,  a  fine  woman  with  a  fine  fortune  in  her  hands, 
then  by  Jove  —  It  is  not  necessary  in  such  circum- 
stance to  put  a  conclusion  into  words.  The  threat 
was  well  enough  expressed  in  that  angry  exclamation. 
A  man  must  submit  to  many  things  when  he  is  bound 
down  and  cannot  help  himself.  It  is  a  very  different 
matter  when  he  has  all  the  power  in  his  own  hands. 


XIV. 

A   NEW    ACTOR. 

IT  was  some  time  after  these  events,  after  a  period 
of  great  quiet,  during  which  Mr.  Mitford  had  been 
living  alone  with  his  daughter,  seeing  her  at  every 
meal,  and  with  a  curious  compound  of  compunction 
and  fatigue  endeavoring  to  talk  to  her,  and  to  encour- 
age her  to  talk  to  him,  an  exercise  which  bored  him 
infinitely,  when  he  received  one  day  a  letter  from 
Stephen,  in  itself  a  somewhat  unusual  event.  Stephen 
had  heard,  he  said,  that  his  brothers  were  awa}r, 
though  he  did  not  inform  his  father  how  he  had 
found  it  out,  and  he  thought,  if  the  Squire  did  not 
disapprove,  of  taking  his  leave  and  coming  home  in 
their  absence.  "  You  know,  sir,"  he  wrote,  "  though 
it  is  no  doubt  my  fault  as  much  as  theirs,  that  we 
don't  pull  together  as  well  as  might  be  desired  ;  and 
as  it  happens  that  a  lot  of  our  fellows  are  in  barracks, 
—  for  town  is  very  handy  from  this  place,  and  they 
can  run  up  almost  every  day,  —  it  would  be  a  good 
moment  for  getting  leave,  as  I  'm  not  going  in  for 
town  much  this  year.  Perhaps  you  would  n't  mind 
my  company  when  there  's  nobody  else  about."  Im- 
possible to  be  more  surprised  than  was  the  Squire  by 
this  letter.  Stephen  himself  to  propose  to  come  home 
in  April,  exactly  the  time  when  there  was  nothing 
doing !  Stephen  to  give  up  town  and  its  delights  and 
the  possibility  of  running  up  every  day,  in  order  to 


154  THE   SECOND  SON. 

come  home  and  make  himself  agreeable  to  his  father, 
when  everybody  of  his  kind  turned,  like  the  sunflower 
to  the  sun,  towards  the  opening  joys  of  the  season  ! 
Mr.  Mitford  was  so  much  astonished  that  he  instinct- 
ively cast  about  in  his  mind  to  make  out  what  motives 
the  young  man  might  have,  presumably  not  so  good 
as  those  which  he  put  forward ;  but  he  could  not  dis- 
cover anything  that  Stephen  could  do,  nor  any  reason 
why  he  should  wish  to  bury  himself  in  the  country  in 
spring,  that  least  attractive  of  all  seasons  to  the  child 
of  fashion,  the  young  man  of  the  period.  It  was  not 
with  much  pleasure  that  the  Squire  contemplated  the 
offered  visit.  Stephen  interfered  with  his  own  habits 
and  ways  more  than  any  other  of  the  family ;  he 
turned  the  household  in  the  direction  he  himself 
wished  more  than  either  of  his  brothers  ever  attempted 
to  do  ;  he  was  less  amiable,  more  self-assertive,  than 
either,  and  showed  much  more  of  that  contempt  for 
the  judgment  of  the  elder  generation  which  exists  so 
generally,  whether  displayed  or  not,  among  the  young, 
than  either  Roger  or  Edmund  had  ever  done.  On 
the  whole,  Mr.  Mitford  would  rather  have  been  left  to 
his  own  devices ;  he  did  not  yearn  for  sympathy  or 
companionship.  If  there  was  one  thing  that  con- 
soled him,  it  was,  perhaps,  the  thought  of  being  de- 
livered from  that  tete-a-tete  with  Nina,  which  began 
to  be  a  very  heavy  necessity.  But  whether  he  liked 
it  or  not,  he  could  not  refuse  to  receive  his  youngest 
son. 

It  was  almost  the  end  of  April  when  Stephen  ar- 
rived. He  came  home  in  the  spring  twilight  some 
time  after  his  baggage,  having  chosen  to  walk,  as  the 
evening  was  fine.  It  was  not  a  long  distance  from 
the  station,  but  he  explained  that  he  had  made  a  little 


A   NEW  ACTOR.  155 

round  to  see  how  everything  was  looking.  The  ex- 
planation was  quite  unnecessary,  for  Mr.  Mitford  was 
not  like  an  anxious  mother  who  counts  the  moments 
in  such  circumstances.  He  was  quite  willing  to  wait 
till  his  son  made  his  appearance  in  the  natural  course 
of  events.  Stephen  was  the  biggest  of  the  family,  a 
large,  strongly  built,  well-developed  young  man,  with 
a  soldier's  straight  back  and  square  shoulders,  and  he 
had  altogether  more  color  about  him  than  was  usual 
to  the  Mitfords.  His  hair  was  reddish-brown,  crisp 
and  curling,  every  ring  and  twist  of  it  looking  like  a 
demonstration  of  vigor  and  life.  Edmund  was  pale, 
and  Roger  had  no  more  than  the  average  English- 
man's health  and  vitality  (which  is,  however,  saying 
a  great  deal),  but  Stephen  had  something  exuberant, 
almost  riotous,  in  his  strength  and  life.  He  began  at 
once  to  interfere,  to  suggest  and  meddle.  He  paused 
even  before  he  took  his  place  at  table.  "  Nina,  you 
should  come  up  here ;  come  along,  young  'un,"  he 
said.  "  It 's  your  place,  now  you  've  grown  up,  to 
take  the  t'other  end." 

"  Let  Nina  alone,"  interposed  Mr.  Mitford.  "  If 
you  don't  like  taking  your  brother's  place,  take  your 
own,  and  let 's  begin  dinner.  '  For  what  we  are  about 
to  receive  '  "  —  The  Squire's  murmur  of  thanksgiv- 
ing seemed  to  lose  itself  in  the  fumes  of  the  soup 
from  which  Larkins  lifted  the  cover  as  he  sat  down. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  taking  my  brother's  place," 
cried  Stephen,  with  a  laugh,  "  not  a  bit !  I  '11  cut 
him  out  whenever  I  can,  I  promise  you.  There  's  no 
reason  why  a  fellow  like  that  should  have  all  the  good 
things.  But  now  Nina 's  out,  as  I  suppose  she  calls 
it"— 

"Let  Nina  alone,"  said   the  Squire  again  briskly. 


156  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  She  does  n't  understand  your  chaff, —  and  neither  do 
I,  for  that  matter.  Did  you  see  either  of  them  as 
you  came  through  town  ?  " 

"  Roger  or  Ned  ?  No,  we  don't  belong  to  the  same 
sets.  I  never  see  them  in  town,  and  I  was  there  only 
an  hour  or  two.  I  was  impatient,  as  you  see,  sir,  to 
get  home." 

He  said  this  with  a  slight  laugh,  and  the  Squire  re- 
plied with  a  Humph !  through  his  nostrils.  Stephen 
did  not  even  pretend  to  be  serious  in  this  profession 
of  regard  for  his  home.  What  did  the  fellow  want  ? 
What  was  his  object?  His  father  could  give  no 
answer  to  this  question,  which  was  asked  mutely  by 
Nina's  wondering  blue  eyes.  She  had  not  sufficiently 
advanced  in  knowledge  of  life,  indeed,  to  question  her 
brother's  motives,  but  her  look  was  full  of  an  incred- 
ulous surprise. 

"  Are  you  so  fond  of  home,  Steve  ?  "  Nina  inquired 
timidly,  in  the  pause  that  ensued. 

Stephen  burst  out  laughing  over  his  soup.  "  Are 
you,  little  'un  ?  "  he  said.  "  Tell  the  truth  and  shame 
the  —  I  don't  believe  you  are,  a  bit.  Yes,  I  'm  de- 
voted to  home :  but  I  wish  the  Squire  had  a  better 
cook.  Do  you  call  this  bisque,  Larkins  ?  I  call  it 
mud." 

"  You  will  see  the  name  in  the  menu,  sir,"  said  the 
butler,  with  grave  severity. 

"  Sure  enough.  That 's  what  comes  of  having  a 
woman.  You  should  give  yourself  the  luxury  of  a 
chef,  sir.  The  women  are  less  expensive,  but  they 
always  make  a  mess.  You  appreciate  good  living, 
and  you  can  afford  it.  Hallo,  what 's  this  ?  Sole  au 
gratin ;  why,  it 's  black !  I  say,  Larkins,  you  must 
really  tell  Mrs.  Simmons,  with  my  compliments  "  — 


A    NEW  ACTOR.  157 

"•  That  Js  enough,  Stephen,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mitford. 
"  What 's  good  enough  for  me  must  be  good  enough 
for  my  company,  even  if  that  company  happens  to  be 
my  youngest  son,  fresh  from  a  mess-table." 

"  Ah,  that 's  bitter,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Your  youngest  sou  happens  to  care  for  what  he 's 
eating.  Now  my  elders  don't  know  the  delicate  bisque 
from  the  common  gravy,  or  what  your  cook  no  doubt 
calls  clear.  Clear  soup,  that 's  the  word.  As  for  the 
mess-table,  just  you  come  and  dine  with  us  one  day, 
Squire,  and  if  you  don't  forgive  me  all  my  impu- 
dence —  Larkins,  some  chablis.  Why,  man  alive ! 
you  don't  serve  sherry,  I  hope,  with  the  fish  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  there  's  no  news,  except  what 's  in  the 
papers,"  said  Mr.  Mitford,  to  stop  these  remarks. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  imagine  that  you  expect  to  see 
any  real  news  in  the  papers,"  said  Stephen.  "  I  hear 
there 's  all  sorts  of  things  going  on,  —  a  pretty  to-do 
in  the  war  office,  and  the  devil  to  pay  among  the  ord- 
nance. They  tell  the  public  there 's  no  evidence 
against  those  big-wigs,  don't  you  know,  which  means 
that  the  witnesses  have  been  squared,  of  course.  Gov- 
ernment don't  dare  to  stir  up  that  dirty  pond." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Mitford,  "  that 
British  officers,  gentlemen,  men  of  honor  "  — 

"Oh  —  oh!  "cried  Stephen.  "Softly,  sir,  softly. 
The  British  public  ain't  here,  unless  it 's  for  Larkins 
you  do  it.  Officers  and  gentlemen  are  just  about  like 
other  people ;  a  little  percentage  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  The  country  does  n't  really  mind,  and  a  little 
more  money  to  spend  is  good  for  everybody.  Why, 
that 's  political  economy,  is  n't  it  ?  —  or  so  I  've 
heard." 

"I  don't  see  how  money  spent  in  bribes  can  be 


158  THE  SECOND  SON. 

good  for  anybody,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I  hope  we  're 
not  going  to  take  a  lesson  from  Russia  at  this  time  of 
day." 

"  The  Yankees  do  it,"  said  Stephen  calmly,  "  and 
they  're  the  most  go-ahead  people  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  As  for  the  Russians,  we  shall  probably  have 
to  fight  them,  but  I  don't  mind  them  in  a  general 
way.  They  're  up  to  a  lot  of  things.  In  the  way  of 
life  there  's  not  much  to  teach  those  fellows.  I  'd  like 
you  to  meet  Salgoroufsky,  sir.  He  's  the  last  new 
thing  in  accomplished  foreigners :  lives  better,  and 
plays  higher,  and  —  in  short,  goes  the  whole  "  — 

"I  don't  put  any  faith  in  Russians,"  asserted  the 
Squire.  "  Oh,  I  suppose  they  're  fast  enough,  if 
that 's  what  you  like.  You  know  the  old  proverb, 
Scratch  a  Russian  and  you  '11  come  to  the  Tartar." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Stephen.  "  Don't  you  think  we  've 
got  a  little  beyond  the  range  of  proverbs  nowadays  ? 
A  real  Russ  was  n't  known  to  our  seniors,  sir,  in  the 
proverb-making  age.  By  the  way,  I  hear  Salgorouf- 
sky is  coming  before  the  public  in  a  more  piquant 
way.  They  say  he  's  one  of  a  half  dozen  Co —  " 

"  Stephen  ! "  said  Mr.  Mitford,  "  none  of  that  here  ; 
you  're  not  at  the  mess-table  now." 

"  What 's  the  matter,  sir  ?  "  asked  Stephen,  arching 
his  eyebrows  with  surprise.  "  Oh,  Nina.  Good  gra- 
cious, what  does  it  matter  ?  I  dare  say  she  would  n't 
understand  ;  and  if  she  did,  why,  a  girl  can't  go  any- 
where nowadays  without  hearing  such  things  talked 
about.  If  you  think  the  women  don't  discuss  them 
as  much  as  we  do  "  — 

"  Then  I  can  tell  you  they  sha'n't  be  discussed  here," 
cried  Mr.  Mitford,  who  had  the  traditions  of  his  gen- 
eration. "  What  do  you  fellows  think  about  the 


A   NEW  ACTOR.  159 

chances  of  war  ?  That 's  more  to  the  purpose,  and  a 
subject  upon  which  a  soldier  may  have  an  opinion." 

"  Oh,  if  you  like  shop  !  "  said  Stephen,  with  an  in- 
dulgent smile.  "  I  make  a  point  of  avoiding  it  my- 
self. We  're  always  game,  you  know,  and  that  sort 
of  thing  —  by  jingo,  if  we  do  —  And  so  long  as  it 
happens  at  the  dull  time  of  the  year,  when  there  's 
nothing  much  going  on  —  Modern  warfare 's  capital 
for  that ;  a  man  can  arrange  his  engagements  so  as  to 
lose  next  to  nothing." 

"  Unless  he  chances  to  lose  his  life  by  the  way ! " 

"Exactly  so,  sir,"  assented  Stephen  coolly.  "Of 
course  that 's  on  the  cards,  but  fellows  don't  calculate 
upon  it.  Our  only  general 's  a  good  'un  for  that.  He 
knows  pretty  well  how  long  it  will  take  to  do  a  busi- 
ness, —  or  to  come  to  smash,"  he  added  philosophic- 
ally. "  The  one  or  the  other  is  sure  to  happen,  don't 
you  know,  within  a  certain  time." 

"  And  I  suppose  nowadays,"  said  the  indignant  fa- 
ther, "  with  all  your  new  enlightened  views  on  the 
subject,  you  don't  mind  much  which  it  is,  so  long  as 
you  get  back  in  time  for  your  engagements." 

"  Well,  sir,  it  fits  in  somehow,"  returned  the  young 
warrior  calmly.  "  I  don't  know  whether,  in  a  social 
point  of  view,  the  smash,  on  the  whole,»is  n't  the  best : 
for  you  are  always  the  victim  of  circumstances  and  all 
the  women  are  quite  sure  that  if  it  had  depended  on 
you  "  — 

"  And  as  for  the  country,  or  the  cause,  or  anything 
of  that  old-fashioned  sort "  — 

"  Oh,  well,  sir  !  "  said  Stephen,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  elevating  his  eyebrows,  and  putting  out  his 
hands. 

Nina  sat  listening  to  all  this  with  very  wide-open 


160  THE   SECOND  SON. 

eyes,  turning  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  rapt  atten- 
tion which  was  not  wholly  accompanied  by  understand- 
ing. Her  mind  did  not  travel  quick  enough  to  follow 
all  these  changes  of  subject,  and  she  was  quite  una- 
ware how  much  of  the  unknown  element  of  chaff  lay 
within  the  utterances  of  her  brother.  Chaff  is  not 
a  thing  which  is  easily  understood  (without  careful 
training)  by  the  very  young.  She  took  it  all  seri- 
ously, wondering  at  Stephen's  wisdom,  who  by  this 
time  felt  that  he  had  done  enough  in  the  way  of  en- 
lightening his  father,  and  that  a  little  time  might  be 
given  to  dazzling  the  sister,  whose  eyes  regarded  him 
with  so  much  admiration.  Stephen  liked  to  be  ad- 
mired by  ladies ;  even,  when  no  one  else  was  about, 
was  capable  of  appreciating  the.  worship  of  Nina,  and 
open  to  the  gratification  of  getting  a  little  fun  out  of 
her,  as  he  would  himself  have  said. 

"  I  say,  little  'un  !  you  should  see  Gerry  in  all  her 
glory,"  he  said.  "  Statham  's  joined  the  Four-in- 
Hand,  don't  you  know  ?  and  there  she  is  on  the  top 
of  the  coach  with  all  her  fast  friends ;  little  Algy 
Banks  in  close  attendance,  of  course,  and  Petersham 
and  Beckerbaum  and  all  that  lot.  Why  does  n't  she 
ask  you  to  stay  with  her,  little  Nines  ?  You  should 
tell  her  you  "re  coming,  —  don't  stop  to  be  asked. 
You  'd  have  such  fun  you  can't  think." 

"  Oh,  Steve  !  "  cried  Nina,  her  blue  eyes  growing 
rounder  and  bigger. 

"  Once  they  have  their  heads  loose,  how  these  girls 
do  go  it,  to  be  sure  !  "  remarked  Stephen,  with  benign 
admiration.  "  Amy 's  to  be  met  with  all  over  the 
place,  wherever  there  's  anything  going  on.  And  to 
think  they  were  just  such  little  mice  as  you,  a  year  or 
two  since ;  never  a  word  above  their  breath  !  They  're 


A   NEW  ACTOR.  161 

ungrateful  little  cats,  too,"  said  this  philosopher,  in- 
different to  the  change  of  metaphor ;  "  they  never 
throw  anything  in  a  fellow's  way.  Let 's  hope  they  '11 
give  you  a  hand,  Nina,  though  they  take  no  notice  of 
a  brother :  and  then  you  '11  remember  me,  my  dear, 
and  say  to  yourself  it  was  Steve  who  put  it  first  into 
your  head." 

"  Let  Nina  alone,"  said  the  Squire  once  more.  "  I 
tell  you  she  doesn't  understand  your  chaff.  And  I 
hope  this  is  chaff  as  well  as  the  rest,  Stephen.  I  hope 
you  don't  mean  that  Geraldine,  a  child  of  mine  "  — 

"Oh,  for  that  matter,  sir!  "  returned  Stephen,  with 
cool  contempt ;  then  he  added  quickly,  perhaps  think- 
ing better  of  it,  for  his  father's  eyes  shone  across  the 
pyramid  of  flowers  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  "  Stat- 
hatu  's  quite  able  to  look  after  his  wife.  He  is  one  of 
the  coolest  hands  going.  If  they  go  too  fast,  he  knows 
exactly  when  to  pull  up.  As  for  that,  they  are  in 
a  very  good  set,  and  have  lots  of  fun.  I  'd  let  them 
introduce  the  little  'un,  sir,  if  I  were  in  your  place. 
Gerry  ought  to  do  something  for  her  family.  Great 
exertions  were  used,  as  we  all  recollect,  to  get  her  off," 
and  Stephen  laughed,  aware  that  under  the  protection 
of  Larkins  he  was  safe,  for  a  moment  at  least,  Mr. 
Mitford  being  much  too  great  a  personage  to  com- 
promise himself,  so  long  as  the  servants  were  in  the 
room,  by  any  outbreak  of  temper.  And  looks  do  not 
hurt.  He  was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise,  amused 
and  tickled  by  the  barbed  darts  that  flew  across  the 
table  at  him  from  Mr.  Mitford's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  cried  Nina,  "  I  wish  you  would  !  I  am 
nearly  eighteen,  and  I  have  never  been  at  a  dance,  cer- 
tainly not  at  a  ball,  a  real  ball,  m  all  my  life.  Geral- 
dine and  Amy  were  asked  out  on  visits,  but  I  think 


162  THE   SECOND  SON. 

people  have  forgotten  there  is  a  third  one  of  us.  And 
I  am  the  last.  Oh,  papa,  let  me  go." 

"  You  had  better  wait  till  you  are  asked,"  said  the 
Squire,  morosely;  and  the  rest  of  the  dinner  went 
over  in  comparative  silence,  broken  chiefly  by  Ste- 
phen's remarks  and  comments.  He  thought  the  souffle 
was  like  lead ;  he  suggested  that  his  father  was  using 
up  that  cheap  claret^"  that  you  thought  you  had  got 
at  such  a  bargain,  sir,"  he  added  cheerfully,  and  with 
a  laugh. 

When  Larkins  left  the  room  the  Squire  broke  out, 
almost  before  he  had  shut  the  door ;  and  indeed  he 
need  not  have  waited,  for  Larkins  was  perfectly  aware 
of  what  was  about  to  take  place,  and  as  he  passed  im- 
mediately into  the  drawing-room,  to  see  that  the  lamps 
were  burning  properly,  got  the  advantage  of  it  in  a 
great  degree,  as  Nina  had  done,  when  she  sat  near  the 
door  "  for  company,"  on  a  previous  occasion.  But 
Stephen  was  not  discomposed  by  his  father's  temper. 
Having  spent  all  his  time  in  "  poking  up  the  bear,"  ac- 
cording to  his  own  refined  description,  he  would  have 
been  disappointed  had  the  excited  animal  refused  to 
dance.  Mr.  Mitford  delivered  his  mind  in  very  for- 
cible language,  driving  Nina  off  to  her  retirement  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  following  her  in  a  gust  of  wrath 
a  few  minutes  afterwards.  Stephen's  arrival  at  Mel- 
combe  was  generally  signalized  in  this  way.  Papa,  as 
Stephen  now  chose  to  call  him,  shut  himself  up  in  his 
library,  slamming  the  doors  like  an  enraged  waiting- 
maid,  while  Nina  sat  and  trembled,  and  listened  not 
without  a  certain  demure  satisfaction  in  the  mischief. 
She  admired  her  brother  for  the  brilliancy  of  his  ap- 
pearance in  general,  and  for  the  effect  he  had  pro- 
duced, and  hoped  tKat  he  would  come  in  and  tell  her 
more  of  Geraldine's  fast  and  furious  proceedings  and 


A   NEW  ACTOR.  163 

the  splendor  of  Amy.  Ah,  if  she  could  but  go,  if  she 
had  but  an  invitation  !  She  saw  herself  on  the  top  of 
the  coach,  with  all  the  ecstasy  of  happiness  foreseen ; 
and,  as  Stephen  said,  why  should  she  wait  to  be 
asked?  Why  not  say  she  was  coming?  A  sister 
could  surely  take  that  liberty.  Nina  drew  forth  her 
little  cabinet  of  ornamental  stationery,  hesitated,  took 
out  a  sheet  of  note  paper  and  put  it  back  again. 
Could  she  venture  upon  it,  in  spite  of  what  papa  had 
said  ?  Oh,  if  Stephen  would  but  come  in  and  advise 
her! 

But  Stephen  apparently  found  something  more  at- 
tractive to  do.  He  sat  a  while  at  the  table  his  father 
had  left,  and  smoked  a  cigarette,  which  was  a  thing  no 
one  else  dared  to  do,  considering  the  close  vicinity  of 
the  door  which  led  into  the  drawing-room,  and  smiled 
to  himself  at  something,  perhaps  at  his  success  in  rout- 
ing the  Squire  ;  and  he  held  up  his  glass  of  claret  to 
the  light  with  an  admiration  of  its  color,  which  was  in 
strong  contrast  to  his  scoff  at  his  father  about  the 
cheap  wine.  He  had  the  air  of  enjoying  himself  very 
much,  as  he  balanced  himself  on  the  hind  legs  of  his 
chair,  and  finished  his  claret  and  his  cigarette.  Nina, 
who  had  gone  to  her  favorite  corner  in  one  of  those 
deep  window-recesses,  heard  him  laugh  to  himself,  and 
smelt  his  cigarette  with  all  the  pleasure  which  attaches 
to  the  forbidden.  She  admired  him  for  smoking  and 
doing  what  no  one  else  was  allowed  to  do,  but  she  did 
not  venture  to  steal  in  and  join  him,  which  was  what 
she  would  have  liked.  Presently,  however,  this  heav- 
enly odor  died  away.  Stephen  got  up,  still  smiling, 
and  went  out  into  the  hall,  where  he  put  on  a  light 
overcoat  and  lit  another  cigarette ;  then,  with  that 
smile  of  triumph  still  upon  his  face,  he  stepped  forth 
into  the  soft  darkness  of  the  April  night. 


XV. 

LOVE. 

INTO  the  April  night  !  It  was  very  light,  for  there 
was  a  new  moon,  which,  without  giving  the  effect  of 
white  light  and  profound  shadow  which  moonlight 
generally  gives,  produced  a  sort  of  mystic  twilight,  the 
sky  still  showing  all  its  soft  color,  the  park  lying  half 
seen,  with  dim  trees  in  groups  and  soft  undulations,  all 
harmonious  in  the  faint  and  dreamy  landscape.  The 
weather  was  warm,  for  the  season,  and  all  the  scents 
and  sensations  of  the  evening  were  indescribable,  so 
full  of  balm  and  movement,  everything  still  tingling 
with  life.  The  impression  of  peace  and  soft  conclusion 
which  belongs  to  the  hour  was  contradicted,  yet  en- 
hanced, by  the  deeper  sentiment  of  the  sweet  spring, 
with  all  its  renewals.  The  dew  fell  like  a  benediction, 
and  it  was  answered  by  the  noiseless  but  almost  audi- 
ble (for  is  not  paradox  the  very  law  of  this  soft,  self- 
contradictory  nature  ?  )  rising  of  the  sap  in  all  these 
trees,  and  of  life  refreshed  throughout  all  the  old 
framework  of  the  earth.  It  scarcely  needed  Fine-Ear, 
with  his  fairy  sense,  to  hear  the  grass  growing.  The 
air  was  full  of  it,  and  of  the  breath  of  the  primroses, 
which  were  almost  over,  and  of  the  bluebells,  which 
had  but  newly  come.  There  was  a  rustle,  and  a  tingle, 
and  a  sigh,  a  something  which  was  at  once  silence  and 
sound,  inarticulate,  uncertain  as  that  faint  darkness 
which  yet  was  light.  It  was  an  hour  of  dreams  and 


LOVE.  165 

delicate  visions,  —  an  hour  in  which  the  young  man's 
fancy,  as  the  poet  says,  turns  lightly  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Alas !  there  are  so  many  ways  of  that.  The  young 
man  whose  thoughts  we  are  about  to  trace  stepped 
forth  in  the  splendor  of  his  evening  clothes,  the  broad 
white  bosom  of  his  shirt  showing  under  his  open  over- 
coat at  a  quarter  of  a  mile's  distance  ;  his  quick  step 
ringing  over  the  gravel  when  he  crossed  it,  coming 
down  rapid  but  noiseless  on  every  daisy  bud  and  new 
blade  of  grass ;  his  red-brown  hair  curling  all  the 
more  crisply  for  the  humidity  of  the  evening  air ;  his 
whole  vigorous,  relentless  being  moving  on  through 
those  soft  influences  unaffected,  bent  upon  one  aim, 
moved  by  one  purpose,  in  which  there  was  nothing 
akin  to  the  charities  of  the  blowing  season,  although 
what  was  in  his  mind  was  love,  after  his  kind :  love, 
—  with  no  anxieties,  humilities,  doubts  of  itself  or  its 
own  charm,  with  a  smile  of  conquest  half  disdainful, 
and  superiority  assured  ;  love  triumphant,  elated  with 
a  sense  of  power,  patronizing,  and  yet  humorous  too, 
amused  by  the  delusions  which  it  meant  to  encourage 
and  develop.  The  smiling  lips  sometimes  widened 
into  a  laugh,  the  elated  imagination  blew  off  a  little 
steam  in  a  snatch  of  song.  He  was  going  to  conquest, 
going  to  success,  and  he  knew  his  own  power. 

About  the  same  time  there  stole  out  of  a  low  gar- 
den gate,  opening  directly  into  the  park,  a  figure,  very 
different,  more  ideal,  yet  perhaps  not  quite  ideal 
either ;  a  slim,  lightly  moving  form  in  a  neutral-tinted 
dress,  which  made  her  like  another  shadow  in  the 
ethereal  twilight,  scarcely  more  marked,  except  by  the 
gliding,  noiseless  movement,  than  the  bushes  among 
which  she  threaded  her  way  into  the  silent  glades. 
Lily  Ford  had  stolen  out,  as  it  had  long  been  her  ro- 


166  THE  SECOND  SON. 

mantic  habit  to  do,  sometimes  on  pretense  of  meeting 
her  father  ;  oftener  still,  and  especially  on  moonlight 
nights,  for  her  own  pleasure.  It  was  a  habit  which 
had  seemed  in  keeping  with  the  poetic  creature  whom 
her  parents  worshiped.  She  was  as  safe  as  in  their 
own  garden,  and  it  was  like  a  poem,  Mrs.  Ford 
thought,  to  think  of  Lily's  moonlight  walks,  not  like 
the  strolls  of  the  village  girls  with  their  sweethearts. 
The  mother,  with  a  little  pang  made  up  of  mingled 
pride  and  exultation,  saw  her  go  out.  It  was  scarcely 
warm  enough  yet  for  these  rambles.  But  it  was  so 
sweet  a  night !  She  wound  a  shawl  about  the  child's 
throat,  and  begged  her  not  to  be  long,  to  come  back 
at  once  if  she  felt  cold.  "  It 's  a  little  bit  chilly,"  she 
said.  But  Lily  would  hear  of  no  objection.  A  new 
moon,  and  the  wind  in  the  south,  not  a  bit  of  east  in 
it.  "  And  I  '11  be  back  in  half  an  hour,  mother,"  she 
said. 

Her  heart  beat  as  she  glided  away  over  the  grassy 
slopes  and  hollows ;  her  steps  made  no  sound  upon 
the  old  mossy  turf.  She  was  all  athrill  with  excite- 
ment, and  expectation,  and  awakened  fancy,  lightly 
turned  to  thoughts  of  love.  She  thought  so,  at  least, 
as  she  skimmed  along,  a  noiseless  shadow,  lifting  her 
face  now  and  then  to  the  tender  moon,  which  was  new, 
and  young  like  herself,  and  full  of  soft  suggestion. 
She  was  going  to  meet  —  him.  How  she  knew  that 
he  had  come  and  that  she  was  to  meet  him  was  never 
revealed.  It  was  not  the  first  by  many  times,  and 
there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  have  told  any 
inquirer  that  by  accident,  as  first  happened,  she  had 
met  Mr.  Stephen  in  the  park.  She  had  meant  to  say 
so  at  the  time.  She  held  it  in  reserve  to  say  now,  if 
there  should  ever  come  a  moment  in  which  it  would 


LOVE.  167 

be  expedient  to  make  known  the  accidental  nature  of 
that  meeting1.  Lily's  entire  being  thrilled  with  the 
expectation,  with  the  delightful  excitement,  with 
something  which,  if  it  were  not  love,  answered  all  the 
purposes  of  love,  making  her  heart  beat  and  the  blood 
dance  in  her  veins.  Roger's  visits  had  never  caused 
her  such  palpitations  —  by  which  she  knew  that  this 
was  not  ambition,  nor  the  delight  of  having  a  lover  so 
much  above  her  and  out  of  her  sphere.  It  was  not 
that.  She  stood  half  in  awe  of  Roger,  though  there 
was  a  pleasure  in  seeing  him  come  night  after  night 
(in  the  cold  weather,  and  while  the  other  was  away)  ; 
but  Stephen  filled  her  with  a  dazzled  admiration  and 
delight.  She  had  been  bewildered  at  first  by  the 
careless  splendor  of  him  in  his  evening  dress.  That 
was  one  glory  of  the  gentleman  lover  which  was  doubly 
seductive  to  Lily's  aspiring  heart.  The  gardener,  in 
his  respectable  Sunday  clothes,  was  "  quite  a  gentle- 
man "  to  the  servants'  hall ;  but  even  Mr.  Wither- 
spoon  did  not  attempt  an  evening  suit ;  and  nothing- 
had  ever  so  flattered  the  girl's  longing  to  belong  to 
the  patrician  class,  to  get  a  footing  in  that  paradise 
above  her,  as  the  splendor  of  Stephen's  fine  linen,  the 
whiteness  of  his  tie  and  his  cuffs,  the  perfection  of  the 
costume,  which  nobody  wore  who  did  not  dine  late 
and  belong  to  that  world  for  which  Lily's  soul  sighed, 
which  was,  she  felt,  the  only  world  in  which  she  could 
be  content  to  live.  All  this  was  in  her  mind  to-night, 
as  she  stole  out  to  keep  her  tryst :  the  lover,  with  all 
his  ardor  and  warmth,  not  respectful  like  Roger  — 
and  the  love  which  drew  her  to  him,  which  was  like 
wine  in  her  own  veins  —  and  the  sense  of  being  ele- 
vated upward  into  the  heaven  she  wished  for,  and  the 
intoxicating  consciousness  of  all  that  he  could  give 


168  THE   SECOND  SON. 

her  —  of  the  life  in  which  she  should  be  like  him,  in 
which  those  evening  clothes  of  his  should  be  balanced 
by  her  own  gleaming  white  shoulders  and  the  flowers 
in  her  hair.  Let  it  not  appear  that  this  was  mere 
vulgar  vanity  of  dress  with  Lily.  This  was  not  at  all 
how  it  moved  her.  It  was  the  last  refinement  of  the 
change  for  which  her  heart  was  longing,  her  transfer 
from  the  gamekeeper's  lodge  and  all  its  incongruities 
into  what  she  felt  was  the  only  life  for  her,  the  real 
world. 

Was  it,  then,  not  love  on  either  side?  In  Stephen's 
experience  it  was  at  least  something  more  than  ordi- 
nary, a  sentiment  much  deeper  than  the  usual  easy 
entanglements,  which  had  brought  him  down  from  all 
the  attractions  of  town  to  the  country  at  the  end  of 
April ;  and  though  he  laughed  a  little  at  Lily's  con- 
viction that  in  both  herself  and  him,  this  was  a  rjrande 
passion,  yet  there  was  no  small  excitement  in  the 
pursuit  which  he  was  carrying  on  at  so  much  trouble 
to  himself.  In  her  inexperienced  soul  there  was  the 
sweep  of  a  great  current  of  emotion,  swiftly,  irresis- 
tibly, drawing  her  toward  him  with  an  impulse  which 
sometimes  seemed  altogether  beyond  her  own  control. 
There  had  been  times,  indeed,  when  she  had  tried  to 
stem  it,  to  stop  herself,  to  ask  whether  what  she  was 
doing  was  right ;  and  Lily  had  learned,  with  an  in- 
toxication of  mingled  pleasure  and  terror,  that  her 
power  to  do  so  was  small,  and  that  this  high  tide  was 
carrying  her  away.  With  terror,  but  yet  with  pleas- 
ure too ;  for  the  girl  was  eager  for  all  the  high  sensa- 
tions of  life,  and  wanted  to  be  .heroically  in  love  almost 
as  much  as  she  wanted  to  be  a  lady;  so  that  the 
thought  of  being  unable  to  stop  herself,  of  being  swept 
away  by  that  great  flood  of  feeling,  was  delightful  and 


LOVE.  169 

ecstatic,  elevating  her  in  her  own  opinion.  As  for 
any  moral  danger,  or  the  possibility  of  ever  finding 
herself  in  the  position  of  the  village  heroines  who 
abound  in  fiction,  the  victims  of  passion,  it  never  at 
any  time  entered  into  Lily's  imagination  that  anything 
of  the  kind  was  possible  to  herself.  There  are  evils 
which  can  be,  and  there  are  some  which  cannot.  We 
do  not,  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  consider  how  to  save  our- 
selves from  being  carried  off  by  a  flood,  for  instance. 
That  she  should  ever  be  a  poor  creature,  betrayed  and 
abandoned,  was  as  impossible  a  contingency.  Indeed, 
it  did  not  even  touch  the  sphere  of  Lily's  thoughts. 

They  met  in  a  little  dell,  where  the  trees  opened  on 
each  side,  leaving  a  long,  soft  line  of  light,  descending 
from  the  pale,  clear  blue  of  the  sky,  with  the  young 
moon  in  it,  to  the  scarcely  visible  undulations  of  the 
turf.  It  was  scarcely  light  so  much  as  lightness,  a 
relief  of  the  evening  atmosphere  from  the  shadows  of 
the  trees,  and  the  vista  slanting  upwards  towards  that 
pure,  far  radiance  of  the  heavens.  It  was  a  spot  in 
which  the  tenderest  lovers  in  the  world,  the  gentlest 
hearts,  most  full  of  visionary  passion,  might  have 
met,  and  where  all  things,  both  visible  and  concealed, 
the  soft  light  and  softer  dark,  the  silent  watch  and 
hush  of  nature,  the  guardian  groups  of  the  trees,  pro- 
tectors, yet  sentinels,  enhanced  the  ideal  of  that  meet- 
ing. But  perhaps  even  Lily,  discovering  before  any- 
thing else  her  lover,  by  that  spotless  expanse  of  shirt 
front  which  Stephen  exposed  without  hesitation  to  the 
night,  was  scarcely  quite  on  a  level  with  the  scene, 
notwithstanding  the  thrill  in  her  nerves  and  the  sound 
of  her  heart  in  her  ears,  which  was,  according  to  the 
last  requirements  of  banal  romance,  the  only  sound 
she  heard.  She  glided  along  towards  him,  admiring 


170  THE   SECOND  SON. 

- 

him,  with  a  sense  that  he  was,  if  not  a  god,  nor  even 
a  king,  in  the  phraseology  so  largely  adopted  by  love- 
lorn ladies  nowadays,  yet  in  all  the  entrancing  reality 
of  that  fact  a  gentleman,  able  to  confer  upon  the  girl 
he  loved  the  corresponding  position  of  a  lady  and  all 
that  was  desirable  in  this  world.  But  perhaps  we  do 
injustice  to  Lily.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment 
she  did  not  think  of  what  he  could  bestow,  but  of 
himself  in  that  climax  of  perfection,  exquisite  in  those 
circumstances  and  surroundings  which  nowhere  else 
had  she  ever  touched  so  closely,  —  not  only  a  gentle- 
man, but  one  in  full  dress,  in  the  attire  only  vaguely 
dreamed  of  by  admiring  visionaries  in  villages,  in  his 
evening  clothes. 

It  is  very  probable  that  Stephen  would  have  been, 
though  not  of  very  delicate  sensibilities,  extremely 
mortified  and  shocked  had  he  been  aware  of  the  part 
which  his  shirt  front,  his  white  tie,  and  that  one  very 
tiny  diamond  stud  bore  in  the  fascination  which  he 
was  conscious  of  exercising  over  Lily.  Fortunately, 
no  such  idea  ever  entered  his  mind,  any  more  than  the 
possibility  of  harm  occurred  to  Lily.  The  thoughts 
of  the  one  were  so  far  entirely  incomprehensible  to 
the  other.  But  at  the  moment  of  their  meeting,  per- 
haps, on  both  sides  the  reserve  fell  away,  and  they 
were  what  they  seemed  for  one  big  heart -beat  — 
lovers ;  forgetting  everything  in  a  sudden  flash  of 
emotion,  such  as  banishes  every  other  feeling. 

"  Well,  little  'un,"  Stephen  said.  "  So  you  've 
come  at  last." 

"  Oh,  Stephen !  "  Lily  cried. 

After  a  minute,  this  transport  being  over,  they  en- 
tered upon  details. 

"  Have  you  been  waiting  long  ?  I  could  n't  get 
away." 


LOVE.  171 

"  Never  mind,  now  you  're  here.  You  are  a  darling 
to  come  on  such  short  notice.  I  was  awfully  afraid 
you  wouldn't." 

"  Do  you  think  there  are  so  many  things  to  occupy 
me  that  I  have  n't  always  time  to  think  "  — 

"  Of  what,  my  little  Lily  ?  Say  of  me.  I  know 
it 's  of  me." 

"  Oh,  Stephen  !  " 

"  You  are  the  most  enchanting  little  —  Would 
you  like  to  know  exactly  how  it  was  ?  As  soon  as  I 
heard  Roger  was  out  of  the  way  —  You  are  sure  you 
did  n't  cry  your  little  eyes  out  for  Roger  ?  " 

"  Stephen  !  "  with  indignation. 

"  Well,  little  'un.  He  ain't  half  bad  —  for  "  — 
"  you,"  he  was  about  to  say,  but  paused,  with  a  sense 
that  Lily's  meekness  was  not  sufficiently  proved. 
"As  for  looks  —  but  looks  are  not  everything  ;  he  has 
his  backers,  as  I  have  mine.  What  side  would  you 
be  on,  Lily  "  — 

"Oh,  Stephen!"  She  rung  the  changes  upon  his 
name  in  every  tone  from  enthusiasm  to  indignation. 

"  Well ! "  he  cried,  triumphantly.  "  As  soon  as  I 
heard  they  were  out  of  the  way  I  got  my  leave  like  a 
shot.  The  Squire  can't  make  it  out,  Lily.  A  fellow 
like  me,  fond  of  being  in  the  middle  of  everything,  to 
turn  his  back  on  the  fun  just  as  the  fiddles  are  tun- 
ing up,  —  he  can't  make  it  out." 

"  Oh,  Stephen  !  and  you  are  giving  that  up,  and 
the  balls,  and  all  the  grand  ladies,  and  everything, 
for  me  ! " 

"  Well,  ain't  you  pleased  ?  I  should  have  thought 
that  was  just  what  you  would  like  best,  Lil.  To  know 
you  're  more  attractive  than  the  whole  lot,  eh  ?  that 
I  'd  rather  come  here  for  this  —  for  a  look  of  you — 
even  when  I  can't  see  you,"  he  cried,  laughing. 


172  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  Oh,  Stephen !  it  is  too  much." 

Her  cheek  touched  the  polished  surface  of  that  shirt 
front,  but  for  the  moment  she  was  not  sensible  of  it, 
being  swept  away  by  the  feeling  that  there  was  no 
one  like  him,  no  one  so  noble,  so  disinterested,  so 
true. 

"  Well,  it 's  a  good  deal,  my  pet ;  it 's  about  all  a 
fellow  can  do,  to  show  —  I  shall  get  the  good  of  it 
all  the  more  another  time,  when  we're  no  longer 
parted  like  this,  having  to  meet  in  the  dark ;  when 
we're"  — 

"  Together !  "  she  said  softly,  under  her  breath, 
with  a  sense  of  ecstatic  expectation,  as  if  it  had  been 
heaven. 

He  laughed  and  held  her  close ;  he  did  not  echo  the 
word,  but  what  did  that  pressure  mean  save  a  more 
eloquent  repetition  ?  Together !  Before  Lily's  eyes 
the  darkness  of  the  dell  lighted  up  with  a  light  that 
never  was  on  ball-room  or  theatre,  a  vision  of  enter- 
tainments indescribable,  happiness  ineffable,  splen- 
dors, raptures,  visions  of  delight.  She  saw  herself 
walking  into  marble  halls,  leaning  upon  his  arm,  dan- 
cing with  him,  riding  with  him,  always  together,  and 
in  the  first  circles,  among  the  best  people  in  England. 
Her  heart  melted  in  the  softening  of  enthusiasm  and 
gratitude  and  joy. 

"  Oh,  tell  me  one  thing,"  she  said. 

"  A  hundred,  my  pet,  whatever  you  please." 

"  Are  you  sure  —  oh,  tell  me  the  truth  !  don't  flatter 
me,  for  I  want  to  know  —  are  you  sure  that  when  you 
take  me  among  all  those  grand  people  you  will  never 
be  ashamed  of  your  poor  Lily  ?  Think  where  you  are 
taking  me  from,  a  poor  little  cottage.  Won't  you 
ever  feel  ashamed  ?  Oh,  Stephen  !  I  think  it  would 
kill  me  :  but  I  want  to  know." 


LOVE.  173 

"  You  little  goose !  "  lie  said,  with  various  caresses  ; 
"  if  I  were  ashamed  of  you,  do  you  think  I  'd  ever 
take  you  among  the  grand  people,  as  you  say  ?  "  He 
laughed,  and  the  echoes  seemed  to  catch  his  laugh 
and  send  it  back  in  a  fashion  which  frightened  Lily. 
"We'll  settle  it  in  that  way,"  he  cried  ;  "you  may 
trust  me  for  that." 

"  If  you  are  sure,  if  you  are  quite  sure." 

"  I  'in  sure,"  he  returned,  "  and  I  '11  tell  you  why ; 
for  whether  it  would  put  you  out  or  not,  it  would  put 
me  out  horribly,  and  I  never  expose  myself  to  an  un- 
pleasantness, —  don't  you  understand  that,  Lily  ?  So 
you  need  n't  be  afraid." 

The  form  of  this  protest  did  not  quite  satisfy  Lily. 
It  was  not  exactly  the  reply  she  expected;  but  after 
all,  was  it  not  the  best  pledge  she  could  have  ?  Did 
it  not  show  how  certain  he  was  that  never  through 
her  could  he  be  shamed  ?  But  she  went  on  with  him 
a  little  in  silence,  daunted,  she  could  scarcely  tell 
why. 

"  We  've  something  to  talk  of,  of  much  more  im- 
portance, Lily.  There  are  to  be  no  silly  fancies, 
mind  !  We  '11  not  often  have  such  a  good  time  as 
this,  with  nobody  spying.  When  are  you  coming  to 
me  for  good  and  all  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Stephen  !  " 

"  Yes,  my  pet,  I  know  all  that.  I  've  thought  it 
over  and  settled  everything.  Lily,  you  are  a  little 
goose,  though  you're  a  very  sweet  one.  I  believe 
you  're  hankering  all  the  time  after  the  white  satin 
and  the  veil,  and  church -bells  ringing,  and  village 
brats  scattering  flowers." 

What  a  leap  her  heart  gave  at  the  suggestion  !  Ah, 
that  she  did,  —  hankered,  as  he  said,  longed,  would 


174  THE   SECOND  SON. 

have  given  her  finger  for  the  possibility,  not,  to  do 
her  justice,  of  the  white  satin,  but  of  the  orderly,  law- 
ful, peaceful  rite  which  everybody  should  know. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  a  falter  in  her  voice,  "  not 
if  that  —  would  be  against  —  your  interest." 

"  Against  my  interest !  I  should  think  it  would  be," 
he  said,  "  and  a  nice  quiet  registrar's  office  is  as  good 
in  every  way." 

"  Ah,  not  that ;  a  little  old  church  in  the  city. 
Don't  you  remember  what  we  agreed  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  then  broke  into  a  laugh 
again.  "  To  be  sure,"  he  cried,  "  a  little  old  church 
in  the  city ;  St.  Botolph's  or  St.  Aldgate's,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  with  an  old  sexton  and  pew- 
opener,  and  everything  mouldy  and  quiet.  I  know 
where  you  have  taken  that  from,  you  little  novel- 
reader;  they're  all  alike  in  the  romances.  Well,  it 
shall  have  its  little  old  church,  if  it  won't  be  content 
without." 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  you  are  not  to  think  me  fanciful : 
but  unless  it  was  in  a  church  I  should  never  believe  it 
was  any  good." 

"  What,  not  with  a  special  license,  and  a  ling,  and 
everything  orthodox  ?  Do  you  think,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh,  "  that  I  should  want  to  deceive  you,  Lily?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  she  cried,  with  a  vehemence  which 
seemed  to  push  him  from  her,  so  earnest  was  she. 
"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  She  was  wounded  even  by  the  sug- 
gestion, which  never  could  have  come  from  her  own 
mind.  "  I  would  as  soon  think  of  the  sky  falling, — 
sooner,  sooner !  " 

He  laughed  again,  but  in  a  less  assured  and  tri- 
umphant tone.  He  added  nothing  to  the  strength  of 
her  denial ;  why  should  he  ?  She  was  sure  enough 


LOVE.  175 

to  make  all  other  asseveration  unnecessary.  And 
then  they  went  on,  slowly  wandering  in  the  soft  dark- 
ness of  the  night,  getting  under  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  as  they  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  West 
Lodge,  for  it  was  time  for  Lily  to  go  home.  Their 
figures  disappeared  amid  the  groups  of  trees,  where 
the  clear  sky-light  and  the  faint  radiance  of  the  moon 
reached  them  but  by  moments.  Not  the  keenest-eyed 
spectator  could  have  followed  them  through  the  wood, 
which  they  both  knew  so  well,  every  step  of  the  way, 
round  the  boles  of  the  great  beeches  and  the  gnarled 
roots  of  the  oaks.  They  spoke  of  all  the  details  of  that 
event,  which  had  been  already  arranged  and  agreed 
upon  ;  to  which  Lily  had  long  ago  worn  out  all  her 
objections,  and  now  regarded  almost  as  a  matter  set- 
tled; which  had  come,  by  much  reasoning  over  it,  to 
look  like  an  ordinary  event.  She  had  ceased  to  think 
of  the  misery  of  her  father  and  mother,  which  at  first 
had  weighed  very  heavily  upon  her  ;  for  what  would 
that  be  ?  —  the  distress  of  a  morning,  the  anxiety  of 
a  single  night,  ending  in  delight  and  triumph.  All 
these  points  were  disposed  of  long  ago  ;  the  sole  thing 
that  remained  was  to  carry  out  this  project,  —  to  carry 
it  out  so  effectively,  so  speedily,  so  quietly,  that  until 
it  was  done  and  over  nobody  should  suspect  its  possi- 
bility. For  no  one  was  aware  of  these  silent  and 
darkling  meetings.  No  spy  had  ever  encountered 
them,  no  prying  eye  seen  them  together.  Roger,  in- 
deed, was  well  enough  known  to  be  a  constant  visitor 
at  the  cottage,  but  of  Stephen,  who  was  so  seldom  at 
Melcombe,  and  so  little  known  in  the  neighborhood 
—  Stephen  the  officer,  the  one  who  had  always  been 
away,  —  nobody  was  at  all  aware  of  his  wooing ;  nor 
had  he  ever  seen  Lily  Ford,  so  far  as  the  country 
neighbors  knew,  in  his  life. 


XVI. 

THOUGHTS   AND   TALKS. 

ROGER  and  Edmund  Mitford  had  gone  away  to- 
gether, much  against  the  will  of  the  elder  brother. 
He  had  not  consented  to  it  even  at  the  moment  when, 
obeying  a  hundred  half  -  resisted  impulses,  he  had 
finally,  without  any  intention  of  doing  so,  refusing  at 
the  very  moment  when  he  yielded,  followed  Edmund's 
impulse,  to  his  brother's  surprise  and  his  own.  So 
unlikely  up  to  the  last  had  it  been  that  they  went  off 
finally  by  the  early  train,  without  any  provision  for 
going,  making  a  step  which  commends  itself,  some- 
how, in  all  cases  to  the  imagination  of  the  miserable, 
—  a  sudden  rush  into  the  night,  an  escape  from  all 
the  known  and  usual  conditions  of  ordinary  existence. 
Edmund  so  understood  and  humored  the  capricious, 
fantastic  misery  of  Roger's  mind  as  to  go  on  without 
pause  or  inquiry,  not  to  London  only,  as  everybody 
thought,  but  as  fast  as  the  railway  could  carry  them 
across  France,  till  they  reached  those  soft  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean,  where  so  many  people  go  when 
life  ceases  to  be  practicable,  as  if  there  were  some- 
thing healing  in  the  mere  contact  with  those  mild 
breezes  and  in  the  sight  of  that  tideless  sea.  Even  the 
journey,  occupying  so  many  long  hours,  in  which  he 
was  at  once  tired  out  and  shut  up  in  a  moving  prison 
from  which  he  could  not  escape,  did  Roger  good,  and 
restored,  or  seemed  to  restore,  his  mental  balance. 


THOUGHTS  AND   TALKS.  177 

He  broke  out  into  wild  ridicule  of  himself  when  he 
got  to  the  Riviera.  What  did  he  want  there,  a  fel- 
low in  such  health,  who  did  not  know  whereabouts  his 
lungs  were,  or  had  anything  that  wanted  setting  right 
in  his  constitution?  He  stalked  through  the  rooms 
at  Monte  Carlo,  observing  the  play  with  the  scornful 
calm  of  a  man  whom  this  kind  of  superficial  excite- 
ment did  not  touch,  and  who  could  scarcely  suppress 
his  contempt  for  the  human  beings  whose  souls  were 
absorbed  in  the  attractions  of  a  color  or  the  number 
of  a  card.  The  greater  part  of  them,  no  doubt,  how- 
ever conscious  of  their  own  folly,  would  have  consid- 
ered the  plight  of  a  young  man  in  his  position,  dis- 
turbed in  all  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  life 
by  the  pretty  face  of  a  gamekeeper's  daughter,  as  an 
idiocy  far  more  unaccountable.  Thus  we  criticise  but 
do  not  better  each  other. 

After  a  few  days,  in  which  he  composed  himself 
thus  by  the  observation  of  other  people's  imbecilities, 
Roger  turned  back,  always  humored  by  his  anxious 
companion,  by  whose  motion  it  was  that  they  paused 
in  Paris,  then  brilliant  in  all  the  beauty  and  gayety  of 
spring ;  and  it  was  only  after  Stephen  had  been  for 
some  days  at  Melcombe  that  the  brothers  came  back 
to  London.  It  was  by  this  time  the  beginning  of 
May.  Easter  was  over,  and  with  it  all  country  claims 
upon  the  attention  of  society.  The  season  had  begun 
its  hot  career,  and  there  were  a  thousand  things  to 
do  for  all  those  who  were  affected  by  that  influx, 
and  by  many  who  were  not.  Roger  had  got  back,  as 
his  brother  thought,  much  of  his  self-command  and 
healthy  balance  of  faculty.  He  allowed  himself  to 
float  into  the  usual  current,  and  do  what  other  men 
did.  If  he  said  something  bitter  now  and  then  about 


178  THE   SECOND   SON. 

the  men,  or  particularly  the  women,  whom  he  en- 
countered, or  betrayed  a  scornful  consciousness  of 
those  little  attempts  to  attract  so  excellent  a  parti, 
to  which  the  intended  victims  of  such  attempts  are 
nowadays  so  very  wide  awake,  these,  though  very 
unlike  Roger,  were  not  at  all  unlike  the  utterances  of 
his  kind,  and  roused  no  astonishment  among  those 
who  heard  them.  A  fine  and  generous  mind,  bent  out 
of  nature  by  some  personal  experience,  is  rarely  bitter 
enough  to  equal  the  common  sentiments  of  the  vulgar 
and  coarse-minded  in  society  or  out  of  ife.  The  cyn- 
ical outbursts  which  grieved  Edmund,  and  jarred  upon 
Roger's  own  ear  like  false  notes,  were  not  so  false  as 
the  common  jargon  which  men  were  accustomed  to 
listen  to  and  give  vent  to,  without  thought  of  any 
particular  meaning  at  all.  So  that  the  state  of  mind 
of  which  the  brothers  were  so  painfully  conscious 
scarcely  betrayed  itself  outside. 

And  they  ceased  to  be  each  other's  constant  com- 
panions in  the  familiar  circles  of  town.  Edmund  had 
his  own  "  set,"  which  was  not  that  of  his  brother.  It 
was  at  once  a  humbler  and  more  exclusive  world  than 
that  into  which  Roger  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn, 
without  any  special  inclination  one  way  or  the  other, 
drifting  npon  the  customary  tide.  Edmund  avoided 
the  ordinary  and  inevitable,  to  which  Roger  resigned 
himself.  He  had  friends  here  and  there  of  quite 
different  claims  and  pretensions.  Sometimes  he  would 
be  at  an  artist's  gorgeous  house  in  St.  John's  Wood, 
sometimes  at  the  big  plain  dwelling  of  a  lawyer  or 
savant  in  Russell  Square.  He  did  not  at  all  mind 
where  it  was,  so  long  as  he  found  people  who  were 
congenial,  and  whose  notions  of  existence  were  more 
or  less  in  keeping  with  his  own.  These  notions  of 


THOUGHTS  AND   TALKS.  179 

existence,  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  were  not  con- 
fined to  the  habits  of  Belgravia  or  even  Mayfair. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Edmund,  when  thus  freed 
of  all  responsibility  for  his  brother,  and  the  position 
which  had  been  little  less  than  that  of  Roger's  keeper, 
or  his  nurse,  felt  much  more  at  his  ease,  and  began  to 
enjoy  himself.  He  liked  the  beginning  of  the  season. 
The  stir  of  renewal  in  the  veins  of  the  great  city,  a 
stir  which  runs  through  everything,  and  in  which  all 
her  various  developments  have  a  share,  was  pleasant 
to  him.  He  went  to  all  the  exhibitions,  and  to  the 
scientific  gatherings,  and  —  what  we  fear  will  greatly 
impair  any  favorable  impression  he  may  have  made 
for  himself  upon  the  mind  of  the  reader  —  even  to 
some  which  are  far  from  being  scientific,  those  which 
flourish  in  the  neighborhood  of  Exeter  Hall.  He  did 
this  without  a  blush,  and  realized  with  a  smile  how 
wonderfully  alike  they  all  were,  both  in  their  good 
qualities  and  in  their  bad.  In  all  there  was  a  certain 
ground  of  honest  enthusiasm,  and  in  all  a  superstruc- 
ture of  humbug  and  make-believe,  and  not  one  of  the 
actors  in  these  scenes  was  aware  where  the  reality 
ended  and  the  sham  began.  In  some  of  these  places 
he  encountered  Mr.  Gavelkind,  the  lawyer  who  had 
charge  of  the  affairs  of  the  Travers  family,  whom  Ed- 
mund had  met  at  Mount  Travers  in  the  late  proprie- 
tor's lifetime.  Mr.  Gavelkind  was  something  of  an 
amateur  in  life,  like  Edmund  himself,  notwithstanding 
that  he  was  a  sober  married  man,  with  a  family.  He 
was  so  sober,  so  respectable,  so  out  of  place  in  some 
of  the  haunts  where  the  young  man  found  him,  that 
the  lawyer  felt  it  necessary  to  explain.  "  You  will 
wonder  to  see  me  so  much  about,"  he  said.  "You 
will  think  I  ought  to  be  at  my  own  fireside,  a  man  of 
my  age." 


180  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  I  was  not  thinking  specially  of  firesides,"  returned 
Edmund ;  and  indeed  there  was  but  little  occasion, 
for  a  lecture  was  then  going  on  at  the  Royal  Institu- 
tion which  was  of  a  nature  altogether  to  discounte- 
nance such  old-fashioned  ideas.  There  was  a  large 
audience,  and  the  occasion  was  supposed  to  be  highly 
interesting.  But  Edmund  and  Mr.  Gavelkiud  were 
both  among  that  restless  and  disturbing  element,  the 
men  who  hang  like  a  sort  of  moving,  rustling  fringe 
round  the  outskirts  of  every  such  assemblage,  —  men 
who  could  evidently  have  found  comfortable  seats,  and 
listened  at  their  ease  to  all  the  lecturer's  demonstra- 
tions, had  they  chosen,  but  who  preferred  to  stand,  or 
swing  on  one  foot,  looking  on,  with  their  heads  close 
together,  and  making  remarks,  which  were  not  always 
in  the  subdued  tone  which  recognizes  the  sanctity  of 
teaching,  whatever  the  character  of  that  teaching  may 
be. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  I  ought  to  be  at  home ; 
but  my  family  are  all  grown  up  and  settled,  Mr.  Mit- 
ford.  My  youngest  girl  was  married  a  year  ago :  and 
the  consequence  is  that  their  mother  is  after  one  or 
the  other  of  them  forever,  and  nobody  takes  any  trou- 
ble about  me.  There  is  always  a  baby  come,  or  com- 
ing, or  something.  It 's  all  very  well  for  half  a  dozen 
other  houses,  but  it  does  n't  add  to  the  chaitn  of  mine. 
We  don't  think  it  worth  while  to  change  our  house, 
my  wife  and  I,  but  it 's  a  great  deal  too  large  for  us, 
that 's  the  truth,  and  a  little  bit  dreary,  —  just  a  little 
bit.  Mrs.  Gavelkind  has  always  one  of  her  brood  to 
look  after,  and  I  come  here,  or  there,"  he  added,  with 
a  gesture  of  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder ;  where  that 
was,  whether  Exeter  Hall,  or  the  theatres  in  the 
Strand,  or  the  House  of  Commons,  or  Mr.  Spurgeon's 


THOUGHTS  AND   TALKS.  181 

Tabernacle,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  tell,  for 
Mr.  Gavelkind  frequented  them  all. 

"It's  not  particularly  lively  iiere,"  Edmund  re- 
marked. 

"  You  mean  the  lecturer  ?  Well,  I  imagine  I  know 
all  his  arguments  by  heart.  But  then,  why  should  he 
take  trouble  about  me?  I  don't  want  to  be  con- 
vinced. I  don't  care  much  for  what  he  believes,  one 
way  or  another.  It 's  that  lot  he  's  thinking  of,  and 
quite  right,  too.  It  is  not  }ou  or  I,  Mr.  Mitford,  who 
will  ever  do  him  any  credit." 

"Softly,"  said  Edmund.  "I  may  be  an  enthusiastic 
student  seeking  enlightenment  on  this  particular  point, 
for  anything  you  know." 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  other,  with  some  curiosity  and  sur- 
prise. He  paused  a  little,  and  then  resumed :  "  Are 
you  really  interested  in  this  evolution  business,  now? 
Well,  we  're  a  strange  lot ;  that 's  what  I  always  say. 
I  see  strange  things  in  my  way  of  business  every  day. 
Bless  us  all,  what 's  a  thumb  or  half  a  dozen  of  'em  to 
what  you  can  see,  going  about  with  eyes  in  your  head, 
every  day?" 

"  Indeed,  that  is  my  opinion,  too,"  assented  Ed- 
mund, thinking  rather  sadly  of  his  brother  and  his 
ari'ested  life. 

"  I  knew  it.  I  've  a  little  experience  with  my  fel- 
low-creatures, and  I  generally  know  from  a  man's 
looks.  We  are  a  droll  lot,  Mr.  Mitford.  Last  time 
I  met  you,  it  was  at  that  Fiji  business.  Odd,  was  n't 
it  ?  What  you  call  unconventional  those  fellows  ought 
to  have  been,  if  anybody.  Dear  me!  they  were  just 
as  cut  and  dry  as  the  best  of  us,"  said  Mr.  Gavelkind, 
with  a  sort  of  admiring  pity,  shaking  his  head. 

"That   is   true,   too,"    returned   Edmund,    with   a 


182  THE  SECOND  SON. 

laugh.  "  You  are  a  desperate  critic,  Mr.  Gavelkind. 
From  Exeter  Hall  to  this  sort  of  thing,  do  you  never 
get  any  satisfaction?  —  for  we  have  met  now  at  a 
number  of  places." 

"  Not  the  sort  of  places  people  generally  mean  when 
they  say  that,"  said  the  lawyer,  with  a  chuckle.  "  I  '11 
tell  you  now,  Mr.  Mitford,  that  actor  man,  —  that 's 
the  fellow,  of  all  I  've  seen,  that  has  got  the  most  con- 
fidence in  himself.  It  is  n't  a  cause,  or  anything  of 
that  sort,  but  for  going  at  it  helter-skelter,  whether  he 
can  do  it  or  not,  and  carrying  the  whole  hurly-burly 
along  with  him.  This  man  here 's  got  no  convictions," 
the  lawyer  added.  "  It  puts  him  out  to  look  at  you 
and  me." 

"Perhaps  it  is  not  very  respectful  to  stand  and  talk 
while  he  is  doing  his  best." 

"That 's  well  said,  too.  I  fear  I  don't  think  enough 
of  that.  If  you're  going  my  way,  Mr.  Mitford,  I 
don't  mind  breaking  off  in  the  middle  of  the  argu- 
ment. A  stroll  in  the  streets  is  just  as  instructive  as 
anything  else,  when  you  've  got  a  rational  being  along 
with  you.  I  know  how  to  get  out  without  disturbing 
anybody."  When  they  had  emerged  into  the  streets, 
however,  instead  of  pursuing  the  course  of  his  reflec- 
tions, Mr.  Gavelkind  said,  — 

"  I  've  been  down  in  your  part  of  the  country  since 
I  saw  you  last." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  Edmund.  He  was  taken  entirely 
unawares,  and  it 'brought  a  color  to  his  cheek,  which 
was  not  lost  on  his  companion.  "  I  suppose  with 
Miss  Travers,"  he  continued.  "  I  hope  that  all  is  well 
there." 

"  Well  enough,  and  very  ill,  too,"  affirmed  the  law- 
yer, shaking  his  head.  "You  know  the  deception 
she's  got  in  hand?" 


THOUGHTS  AND   TALKS,  183 

"  Deception  !  "  said  Edmund,  with  surprise. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know.  By  her  uncle's  will  she 
has  everything,  but  to  save  the  feelings  of  that  little, 
useless,  uninteresting  person  " — 

"I  remember,"  said  Edmund;  "but  surely  it's  a 
sacred  sort  of  deception." 

"A  sacred  falsehood,"  said  the  other,  shaking  his 
head ;  "  all  that  does  n't  make  it  easier  to  manage 
now.  She  has  wound  herself  up  in  coil  on  coil,  and 
unless  the  poor  old  lady  dies,  which  would  be  the  only 
safe  ending,  I  don't  know  how  she 's  to  come  out. 
It 's  better  to  let  things  take  their  course.  You  can't 
play  providence  with  any  success  that  I  have  ever 
seen." 

"  But  surely,  it  was  most  natural,  and,  indeed,  the 
only  thing  which  Miss  Travers,  being  the  woman  she 
is,  could  have  done." 

"  Being  the  woman  she  is,"  the  lawyer  repeated, 
shaking  his  head.  "  She 's  a  very  fine  woman,  Eliza- 
beth Travers.  I  don't  mean  in  the  usual  sense  of  the 
words,  though  she 's  a  handsome  girl,  too.  There  are 
not  many  like  her,  Mr.  Mitford :  though  I  don't  know 
whether  she  's  properly  appreciated  among  all  the  old 
fogyisms  of  a  country  neighborhood." 

"  I  think  Miss  Travers  is  valued  as  she  ought  to 
be,"  said  Edmund,  again  with  a  slight  embarrass- 
ment. "  At  least,  as  near  that  as  common  under- 
standing goes,"  he  added,  after  a  moment. 

"Ah,  there  you're  right,"  cried  Mr.  Gavelkind  ; 
"  that 's  never  within  a  long  way  of  the  reality.  A 
country  neighborhood  —  begging  your  pardon,  if 
you  're  fond  of  it  —  is  the  devil  for  that.  They  're  all 
so  precious  set  up  on  their  own  merits.  And  the  new 
people,  as  you  call  'em,  the  new  people  get  no  chance." 


184  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  All  that  has  been  got  over  in  this  case,"  Edmund 
said.  "  Her  relations  —  had  very  little  in  common 
with  "  — 

He  was  going  to  say  "  Elizabeth,"  the  lawyer  felt 
sure.  The  puppy !  And  yet  what  a  natural  and,  on 
the  whole,  pleasant  thing  to  do ! 

"  Mrs.  Travers  is  not  a  badly  bred  woman.  She 
has  some  sense,  in  her  way.  But  now  they  've  both 
got  wound  round  and  round  in  the  coils  of  this  huge 
mistake,  and  the  worst  is  that  everybody  knows.  You 
might  as  well  have  tried,"  said  Mr.  Gavelkind,  "  to 
smother  the  scent  of  that  ointment,  you  know,  in  the 
Bible,  as  to  keep  a  will  from  being  known.  Who 
tells  it  you  never  can  find  out,  but  before  the  seals  are 
broken  it 's  always  known.  That 's  one  of  the  things 
that  can't  be  hid.  And  some  time  or  other  it  will  all 
come  out,  unless  the  old  lady  dies,  which  would  be  the 
best." 

"  It  seems  a  pity  to  doom  her  on  that  account." 

"  Then  Miss  Travers  should  marry,  sir,  as  great  a 
fool  as  herself,  who  would  accept  the  position  and 
keep  it  up.  And  I  don't  suppose  a  saint  like  that  is 
easily  to  be  met  with  in  this  commonplace  sort  of  a 
world." 

"  Should  he  be  a  saint  ?  "  Edmund  asked,  with  a 
faint  laugh.  They  were  crossing  a  stream  of  bright 
light  from  an  open  door,  and  Mr.  Gavelkind,  looking 
sharply  up,  saw  the  wave  of  color  which  went  once 
more  over  his  companion's  face. 

"  If  you  know  anybody  so  disinterested,  put  the 
circumstances  before  him,  and  tell  him  that  the  man 
that  marries  Elizabeth  Travers  will  get  "  — 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Edmund,  putting  up  his  hand 
quickly,  "  but  don't  you  think  we  're  going  rather 


THOUGHTS  AND   TALKS.  185 

far  ?  I  have  no  right,  on  my  side,  to  discuss  such  a 
question,  whatever  you  may  have." 

"  Oh,  I  've  right  enough,"  cried  Mr.  Gavelkind. 
"  Good-night,  Mr.  Edmund  Mitford.  We  are  a  queer 
lot  in  this  world.  Lord,  to  think  of  a  man  troubling 
his  head  about  evolution  that  can  see  the  contradic- 
tions of  human  nature  every  day  !  " 

With  this  curious  bombshell  or  Parthian  arrow, 
the  lawyer  gave  Edmund's  hand  a  hasty  shake,  and 
before  he  could  draw  his  breath  had  turned  round  and 
darted  away. 

The  man  that  marries  Elizabeth  Travers  will  get  — 
Edmund  went  along  Piccadilly,  where  he  was  thus 
left,  with  these  words  ringing  through  his  mind. 
They  formed  into  a  kind  of  chorus,  and  sung  them- 
selves to  the  accompaniment  of  all  the  rhythm  of  life 
around,  as  he  passed  along  quickly,  silently,  absorbed 
in  the  thought.  It  was  not  a  new  thought,  though  it 
was  one  which  he  had  never  allowed  himself  to  enter- 
tain. Nobody  could  understand  like  himself  the  chill 
resistance  of  the  country  neighborhood  first,  the  flut- 
ter of  discussion  after,  and  all  those  levities  about  the 
heiress  which  had  flown  about  like  thistle-down.  The 
man  who  marries  Elizabeth  Travers  will  get  —  What 
should  he  get,  that  happy  man  ?  Was  it  so  many 
hundreds  of  thousands  that  old  Gavelkind  had  been 
about  to  say  ?  Half  the  people  in  the  country  could 
have  told  that  with  a  glib  certainty,  and  had  repeated 
it  till  an  honest  heart  grew  sick.  Was  that  all  the 
husband  of  Elizabeth  Travers  would  get?  Edmund 
unconsciously  flung  his  head  high,  with  a  half  sob  of 
generous  feeling  in  his  throat.  That  was  not  what 
the  old  lawyer  had  been  about  to  say.  Even  that 
old  fellow  knew  better.  The  man  that  marries  Eliza- 


186  THE  SECOND  SON. 

abeth  Travers —  The  man  that —  Fortunate  man, 
favored  of  Heaven !  The  tumult  of  the  streets  clanged 
around  Edmund  in  a  ring  of  mingled  echoes,  all 
chiming  with  these  words.  They  pressed  upon  him 
so,  and  rang  in^his  ears,  that  presently,  when  he 
reached  that  corner  where  all  the  lights  were  flashing, 
and  the  streams  of  the  great  thoroughfares  meeting, 
and  the  carriage  lamps  darting  past  each  other  like 
fireflies,  he  took  refuge  in  the  quiet  and  comparative 
seclusion  of  the  park,  like  a  man  pursued.  But  when 
he  got  there,  and  caught  sight  of  the  soft  May  sky 
over  the  wide  spaces  of  the  Park,  and  felt  upon  him 
the  shining  of  that  same  moon,  only  a  little  older, 
which  shone  upon  Stephen  and  his  coming  at  Mel- 
combe,  instead  of  escaping,  he  found  himself  caught 
again  by  softer  echoes,  like  the  sound  of  marriage- 
bells.  The  man  who  marries  Elizabeth  Travers  — 
Who,  in  the  name  of  all  happy  inspirations,  who  — 
was  that  to  be. 


xvn. 

SOCIAL   PHILOSOPHY. 

THE  two  brothers  lived  in  the  same  chambers, 
though  they  did  not  see  very  much  of  each  other  ;  for 
Roger  generally  was  not  out  of  bed  when  Edmund 
went  out,  and  Edmund  had  retired  to  his  room  be- 
fore Roger  came  in  at  night.  They  were  in  different 
"  sets,"  as  has  been  said.  Roger,  whom  society  held 
as  the  more  desirable  of  the  two  elder  Mitfords, 
though  inferior  in  many  ways  to  the  third,  had  been 
sucked  into  a  very  usual,  very  commonplace  round  of 
engagements,  which,  without  any  pleasure  to  speak  of, 
to  himself  or  any  one  else,  kept  him  perpetually  occu- 
pied, and  in  the  condition  of  which  it  is  said  of  a  man 
that  he  cannot  call  his  soul  his  own.  But  it  so  hap- 
pened that  on  this  night,  of  all  nights,  Roger  had  an 
engagement  which  he  disliked  particularly,  or  else  he 
had  a  headache,  or  something  else  had  happened  which 
made  him  break  off  abruptly  for  once  in  a  way  from 
that  absorbing  round  ;  and  to  the  astonishment  and 
temporary  embarrassment  of  both  brothers,  the  elder 
came  in  while  the  younger  was  still  lingering,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette,  over  the  dying  fire,  which  was  not  out 
of  place  even  in  the  beginning  of  May. 

"  Hallo  !  is  that  you,  Roger  ?  "  said  Edmund  ;  and 
"  Hallo  !  are  you  still  there,  Ned  ?  "  said  Roger. 
These  were  their  only  salutations,  though  they  had 
not  met  all  day. 


188  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"Yes,  I'm  still  here,"  said  Edmund,  poking  the 
fire  to  give  himself  a  countenance  ;  "  naturally  —  it 's 
not  quite  twelve  o'clock." 

"  I  did  n't  know  that  it  was  so  early,"  Roger  re- 
plied with  some  embarrassment,  bringing  forward  his 
favorite  easy-chair. 

"  Some  of  your  engagements  fallen  through  ?  By 
the  way,  I  thought  you  were  to  be  at  the  Stathams' 
to-night?  " 

"  Ned,"  returned  the  elder  brother,  with  a  serious- 
ness which  perhaps  was  partly  put  on  to  veil  other 
feelings,  "  when  girls  do  run  amuck  in  society,  it 's 
appalling  the  pace  they  go.  I  've  laughed  at  it,  per- 
haps, in  other  families,  but  by  Jove,  when  it 's  a  little 
thing  you  've  seen  in  long  clothes,  or  short  petti- 


"  Gerry  ?  "  said  Edmund,  looking  up,  with  the  poker 
still  in  his  hand. 

Roger  only  nodded  as  he  threw  himself  down  in  his 
chair.  "  It 's  enough  to  make  a  fellow  forswear  so- 
ciety altogether,"  he  remarked. 

"  She  means  no  harm.  It 's  because  she  was  kept 
in  so  much  in  her  youth.  We  are  partly  to  blame, 
for  we  never  attempted  to  do  anything  for  the  girls. 
There 's  poor  little  Nina.  I  don't  wonder  if  they  are 
wild  for  pleasure  when  they  get  free :  but  Gerry 
means  no  harm." 

"  Harm  !  "  cried  Roger,  "  that  little  thing  that  never 
spoke  above  her  breath  !  She  is  as  bold  as  a  fishwife, 
and  as  noisy  as  —  as  noisy  as  —  I  can't  find  any  com- 
parison —  as  her  kind.  They  are  noisier  than  any- 
thing else  out." 

"  It  is  all  ignorance  —  and  partly  innocence,"  said 
the  apologetic  brother.  "  They  tell  her  it'  s  fun  to 


SOCIAL  PHILOSOPHY.  189 

startle  the  old  fogies  —  and  she  knows  no  better. 
I  believe  most  of  them  are  like  that.  They  fear 
nothing,  because  they  don't  know  what  there  is  to 
fear  "  — 

Roger  kept  on  shaking  his  head  during  this  speech. 
"  That 's  all  very  well,"  he  said,  "  that 's  all  very  well ; 
but  when  it  happens  to  be  your  own  sister,  it  takes 
away  your  breath."  To  show,  however,  how  little  his 
breath  was  taken  away,  Roger  here  breathed  a  mighty 
sigh,  which  disturbed  the  calm  flame  of  the  candles  on 
the  table,  and  made  a  slight  movement  in  the  room. 
The  fastness  of  Geraldine  had  given  him  occasion  to 
let  forth  some  of  the  prevailing  dissatisfaction  in  his 
miiid  ;  but  the  trouble  in  him  did  not  arise  from  that 
alone.  "  And  what 's  the  good  of  it  all,"  he  went  on, 
"even  where  there's  no  harm,  as  you  say?  Good 
Lord !  was  life  given  one  to  be  spent  in  a  round  of 
stupid  parties  night  after  night,  and  stupid  nothings 
all  the  day  ?  What  do  I  care  for  their  Hurlingham, 
and  Lord's,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  ?  I  'm  not  a  boy  ; 
I  'm  a  man.  I  tell  you  that  I  'm  sick  of  all  those  fel- 
lows that  say  the  same  things,  and  wear  the  same 
clothes,  and  make  the  same  silly  jokes  forever  and 
ever.  Jove !  if  a  war  would  break  out  or  something, 
a  good,  savage,  man-to-man  business,  like  the  French 
Revolution;  but  the  beggars  would  fight,  I  can  tell 
you.  We  'd  neither  stand  to  have  our  heads  cut  off, 
nor  run  away." 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  we  should  —  but  why  such  a 
grim  suggestion  ?  We  '11  have  no  French  Revolution 
here." 

"  More  's  the  pity,"  declared  Roger,  with  a  sigh. 
"  It  might  clear  the  air  all  over  the  world,  and  dis- 
pose of  a  lot  that  could  do  that,  but  are  not  much 
good  for  anything  else." 


190  THE   SECOND  SOX. 

Edmund  feared  above  all  this  fierce  mood,  which 
was  half  made  up  of  longing  for  those  scenes  and  ob- 
jects of  living  from  which  he  had  been  instrumental 
in  drawing  his  brother  away. 

"  You  should  try  my  haunts  for  a  bit,"  he  said,  with 
a  laugh.  "  My  friends  are  bent  —  the  most  of  them 

—  on  mending  the  world.     And  now  and  then  one 
meets  an   original   who  is  fun.     To-night  there  was 
old  Gavelkind  "  — 

He  regretted  it  the  moment  he  had  mentioned  the 
name. 

"  Gavelkind  !  who  's  that  ?  It 's  an  odd  name,  I 
remember  the  name.  Something  to  do  with  law: 
now  I  recollect.  It  is  the  old  fellow  one  used  to  see 
about  with  Mr.  Travers.  An  original,  is  he?  And 
so  was  the  other  old  man." 

"Old  men  seem  to  have  the  better  of  us  in  that 
way,"  remarked  Edmund.  "  They  have  had  a  longer 
time  in  which  to  form  their  opinions,  I  suppose." 

"Not  the  old  fellows  about  town,"  said  Roger 
fiercely.  "  Old  beasts  !  holding  on  like  grim  death  to 
what  they  call  life." 

"  You  are  severe  to-night.  If  you  knew  them  bet- 
ter, no  doubt  you  would  find  there  was  some  good  in 
them  too." 

"  Let  us  have  no  more  of  your  moralities,  Ned.  I 
can't  stand  them  to  night.  Look  here,  did  he  tell 
you  anything  about  —  about  them,  you  know  —  about 

—  Elizabeth  —  and  the   rest  ?     He 's  always  coming 
and  going.     What  did  he  say  about  them  ?  " 

"  Roger,"  said  Edmund,  turning  from  his  brother, 
and  playing  with  the  poker  upon  the  dying  fire,  "  I 
am  not  much  of  a  fellow  to  ask  questions  —  but  I 
should  like  to  know  —  If  you  will  let  me  —  I  should 

—  like  to  understand  "  — 


SOCIAL  PHILOSOPHY.  191 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  Heaven  ?  Am  I  to  be 
brought  to  book  by  you  too?  " 

"  Bringing  to  book  is  folly,  and  you  know  it.  There 
is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  be  sure  of.  It  may  be 
among  the  things  that  a  man  has  no  right  to  ask." 

"  Not  from  a  brother  ?  "  asked  Roger,  with  some- 
thing like  a  sneer. 

"  A  brother,  I  suppose,  least  of  all  —  and  yet  —  I 
may  as  well  say  out  what  I  mean.  There  is  one  name 
which  you  have  singled  out  to  inquire  after.  I  don't 
want  to  bring  that  name  under  discussion  :  we  have 
had  enough  of  that.  Roger,  as  one  fellow  to  another, 
without  any  right  to  ask  or  pry  into  your  business  — 
After  all  that  has  come  and  gone,  have  you  any  — 
feeling  about  her,  or  intentions,  or  —  Right  ?  —  no, 
I  have  no  right  to  ask.  I  said  so  to  begin  with  :  only 
the  right,"  Edmund  added,  with  a  little  harsh  laugh, 
u  of  wanting  to  know." 

He  had  put  down  the  poker  and  risen  from  his 
chair,  but  not  to  aid  his  interrogatory  by  his  eyes.. 
He  stood  with  his  back  to  his  brother,  staring  into 
the  glass,  all  garlanded  with  cards  of  invitation,  which 
was  over  the  mantelpiece,  and  in  which  the  only 
thing  he  saw  was  his  own  overcast  and  clouded  face. 
There  was  a  momentary  silence  in  the  room,  into 
which  the  creaking  of  the  chair  upon  which  Roger 
was  leaning  heavily,  the  fall  of  ashes  from  the  grate, 
and  even  the  sound  of  footsteps  outside  came  in  as 
with  a  curious  diversion  of  interest,  which,  however, 
was  no  diversion  at  all.  Roger  replied  at  length,  with 
his  chin  set  down,  and  the  words  coming  with  diffi- 
culty from  between  his  teeth,  in  the  tone  which  all  the 
Mitfords  knew :  — 

"  1  can't  see  why  you  should  want  to  know,  or  why 


192  THE   SECOND  SON. 

I  should  submit  to  be  questioned  —  or  what  my  affairs 
are  to  you."  These  phrases  were  uttered  with  a  little 
interval  between  each,  and  then  there  was  a  longer 
pause ;  after  which  Roger  exclaimed,  suddenly  strik- 
ing his  hand  upon  the  table,  "  I  feel  like  the  very 
devil  to-night.  Why  do  you  provoke  me  with  ques- 
tions ?  There  is  no  woman  in  the  world  that  is  worth 
a  quarrel  between  you  and  me." 

Edmund  made  no  reply.  He  sat  down  again  in 
his  chair  without  turning  round.  On  his  side,  he 
thought,  no  doubt,  that  the  question  he  had  asked  was 
one  that  ought  to  have  been  answered  should  the 
whole  earth  fall  to  pieces ;  and  as  for  no  woman  in 
the  world  being  worth  —  He  could  not  but  say  to 
himself  with  some  bitterness  that  the  women  Eoger 
knew  were  indeed  worth  but  little,  which,  at  the  same 
time,  he  was  aware  was  not  true.  An  uncomfortable 
moment  passed  thus.  Edmund  could  keep  himself 
under,  and  restrain  all  words  of  impatience,  but  words 
of  kindness  were  beyond  him.  Presently,  in  ten 
long  minutes  or  so,  in  the  course  of  nature,  he  would 
say  something  on  some  profoundly  indifferent  subject, 
and  the  incident  would  be  over,  without  sequence  or 
meaning  of  any  kind. 

This,  however,  was  not  to  be.  The  silence  was 
broken  by  Roger,  though  only  by  the  sound  of  his 
chair  drawing  a  little  nearer  to  the  half-extinguished 
fire ;  then  he  lightly  touched  his  brother  on  the 
shoulder.  "  Ned,  I  say,  no  woman  's  worth  a  quarrel 
between  you  and  me." 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  making  any  quarrel "  — 

"  No,  but  I  know  what  you  think.  I  asked  about 
Miss  Travers  because  —  because  that  old  fellow  was 
connected  with  her  ;  because  hers  was  the  first  name 


SOCIAL  PHILOSOPHY.  193 

that  came  uppermost ;  because  —  Ned,  her  name  is 
nothing  to  me  more  than  any  other;  and  it's  a  pity. 
My  father  was  quite  right,  notwithstanding.  No, 
more  's  the  pity,  —  her  name  means  nothing  to  me." 
"  But  it  may,  if  you  regret  it  already." 
Edmund  turned  round  for  the  first  time,  and  looked 
his  brother  in  the  face.  Roger's  eyes  seemed  full  of 
a  moisture  which  was  not  tears ;  a  strange,  softening 
liquid  medium  which  made  them  glow  and  shine.  The 
look  of  them  went  to  Edmund's  heart.  He  put  out 
his  hand  and  grasped  his  brother's,  which  was  hot  and 
not  very  steady.  "  Old  fellow,"  he  said,  and  said  no 
more.  Emotion  in  England  does  not  know  how  to  ex- 
press itself  between  two  men.  Pity,  tenderness,  an 
awful  sense  of  the  impotence  of  humanity,  came  into 
Edmund's  heart  and  overwhelmed  it.  No  man  can 
save  his  brother.  The  tragic  folly,  the  passion  which 
would  not  loose  its  hold,  the  infatuation  which  ap- 
peared to  have  laid  its  hand  upon  one,  and  which  the 
other  understood  with  an  intolerable  conviction  of  the 
madness  of  it,  the  unworthiness,  were  beyond  the 
reach  of  help.  Anger,  indignation,  wonder,  all  min- 
gled together,  and  all  obliterated  in  pity  could  do 
nothing.  Edmund  understood,  yet  could  not  under- 
stand. He  would  have  given  up  all  thought  of  hap- 
piness for  himself,  if  that  would  have  sufficed  to  pluck 
Roger  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  But  what  could 
he  do?  Words  were  of  no  avail,  remonstrances,  ar- 
guments ;  nor  even  the  pointing  out  of  a  better  way. 
No  man  can  save  his  brother.  He  sank  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  groan. 

"  There 's  nothing  to  make  yourself  unhappy  about. 
Ned,"  said  Roger,  with  sudden  cheerfulness.  "  I  am 
safe  enough,  and  out  of  the  way  of  mischief  here. 


194  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Out  of  the  way  of  mischief !  "  he  repeated,  mockingly. 
"  I  should  think  so.  There  is  nothing  in  poor  little 
Gerry's  set,  is  there,  to  tempt  a  man  to  folly  ?  " 

"  I  wish  there  were  !  " 

"You  wish  there  were?  You  would  like  to  see 
Melcombe  turned  into  Vanity  Fair,  or  into  a  sort  of 
anteroom  to  the  stables,  —  which  ?  You  would  like 
to  see  dogs  and  horses,  and  horsey  men  crowding  up 
the  place  ;  or  a  rabble  rout,  acting,  dancing,  rushing 
about ;  something  going  on  forever  and  ever.  Which 
is  better,  I  wonder,"  said  Roger,  "  a  stable-boy  dis- 
guised as  a  fine  lady,  with  the  best  of  blood  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  education  and  so  forth,  or  a  woman  de- 
scended from  nobody  in  particular,  —  just  a  woman, 


no  more 


"  Is  that  a  question  we  need  to  ask  ?  "  said  Edmund. 
But  Roger  had  left  his  chair,  and  gone  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room  to  supply  himself  with  some  of  those 
drinks  which  seem  indispensable  when  men  sit  and 
talk  together,  and  he  did  not  hear ;  or  if  he  did  hear, 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  pay  any  attention.  He 
came  back  to  his  chair  with  his  glass  in  his  hand,  and 
began  to  talk  upon  ordinary  subjects,  to  the  great  re- 
lief, yet  disappointment,  of  his  brother  ;  and  they  sat 
thus  through  the  small  hours,  discussing  matters  not 
of  the  least  importance;  or,  indeed,  not  discussing 
anything ;  sitting  together,  while  the  fire  went  out  at 
their  feet,  making  a  remark  once  in  five  minutes  or 
so ;  now  and  then  fortunately  hitting  upon  some  sub- 
ject which  called  forth  a  little  rapid  interchange  of 
words  for  a  few  seconds ;  then  dropping  off  again 
into  that  silence  occasionally  broken  with  an  indiffer- 
ent phrase.  They  had  both  many  things  to  think  of, 
but  carefully  abstained  from  approaching  again  the 


SOCIAL   PHILOSOPHY.  195 

edge  of  any  subject  that  was  of  the  slightest  interest. 
They  would  both  have  been  a  great  deal  better  in  bed, 
and  they  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  keep  them  out 
of  it ;  no  particular  pleasure  in  this  companionship, 
nothing  but  habit,  which  kept  them  with  their  feet  on 
the  fender,  though  the  fire  was  out ;  and,  especially 
with  a  window  open,  it  is  not  always  balmy  in  London 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  in  May. 

At  last  Edmund  got  up,  stretching  his  limbs  like  a 
man  fatigued.  "  I  think  I  '11  go  to  bed,"  he  said. 
Then  after  an  interval,  "  I  've  half  an  idea  of  running 
down  home  to-morrow.  There  is  nothing  much  for  me 
to  do  here." 

"  Home  !  "  cried  Roger,  rising,  too.  "  To-morrow ! 
That 's  sudden,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"No;  I  don't  think  it's  sudden.  I  'm  not  one  of 
your  fashionable  men.  I  never  meant  to  stay  "  — 

"  Oh !  "  Roger  said,  and  that  was  all.  The  remark, 
however,  had  a  great  deal  in  it.  It  meant  a  little 
surprise,  a  slight  shock,  indeed,  as  of  a  thing  not  at 
all  expected  or  foreseen ;  and  then  a  half  doubt,  an 
uncertainty,  a  dawn  of  purpose.  All  this  Edmund 
divined  and  feared  ;  but  he  made  as  though  he  saw 
nothing  in  it  except  that  universal  English  exclamation 
which  means  anything  or  nothing,  as  the  case  may  be. 
He  lighted  his  candle  with  sudden  expedition,  so  as  to 
leave  the  room  before  the  dull  air  should  tingle  with 
any  more  words ;  before  Roger  should  say,  "  I  don't 
see  —  why  I  should  not  go  too."  Edmund  escaped  to 
the  shelter  of  his  own  room  before  these  words  could 
be  said,  if  ever  there  had  been  any  intention  that  they 
should  be  said.  The  elder  brother  left  behind  did 
not  say  them  to  himself.  All  that  he  did  was  what 
Edmund  had  done  before,  to  lean  upon  the  mantel- 


196  THE   SECOND  SON. 

piece  and  gaze  into  the  glass,  about  which  were  stuck 
so  many  cards,  large  and  small.  Gazing  into  a  mirror 
is  not  an  unusual  trick  with  people  with  troubled 
minds.  Sometimes  one  does  but  look  blankly  into 
that  unreal  world,  with  its  mystery  and  suggestions. 
There  is  a  kind  of  fantastic  charm  in  it.  Roger  did 
this  blankly,  not  caring  for  his  own  face,  in  which  he 
could  read  nothing  he  did  not  know,  but  gazing  into 
the  void,  which  was  something  different  from  the  well- 
known  room  reflected  in  it,  —  something  with  depths 
of  the  unseen,  and  darkling  shadows  as  profound  as 
fate.  What  did  he  see  there  ?  No  prevision  of  what 
was  coming ;  only  a  blank  such  as  there  was  in  his 
heart,  without  power  to  anticipate,  much  less  to  decide, 
what  was  to  be. 

Going  home  to-morrow  !  Presently  he  began  to 
take  down  and  tnrn  over  in  his  hands  the  invitation 
cards.  At  first  mechanically,  without  any  thought ; 
afterwards  with  flashes  of  imagination,  of  realization. 
So  many  crushes  through  which  he  would  make  his 
way,  hat  in  hand,  shake  hands  with  a  few  people,  say 
half  a  dozen  indifferent  words  here  and  there  to  in- 
dividuals whom  he  had  probably  met  half  a  dozen 
times  before  the  same  day,  and  whom  he  did  not  care 
if  he  never  saw  again  ;  dinners  where  he  would  eat 
the  same  delicacies  out  of  season,  and  maintain  the 
same  talk  evening  after  evening.  "  The  Row  was  very 
full  to-day.  I  did  not  see  you  at  Lady  Grandmaison's. 
It  was  rather  a  pretty  party,  considering  that  so  many 
people  stayed  away.  We  shall  meet,  I  suppose,  to- 
night at  old  Bullion's,  —  oh,  everybody  is  going." 
These  were  the  jewels  of  conversation  which  he  would 
gather,  unless  horses  were  in  question,  or  the  prospects 
at  Ascot,  or  the  opinions  of  the  grooms  and  trainers ; 


SOCIAL  PHILOSOPHY.  197 

or  perhaps,  which  was  worst  of  all,  there  would  be  a 
young  lady  in  the  house,  gently  urged  upon  him,  care- 
fully thrown  in  his  way,  sometimes  to  the  girl's  own 
indignation,  sometimes  with  her  consent.  As  he  went 
over  them  all,  Roger,  being  somewhat  jaundiced  in  his 
view  of  society,  and  glad  to  think  the  worst  of  it,  felt 
a  sickness  and  faintness  steal  over  him.  Why  should 
he  stay  for  that  ?  Was  this  enjoyment  ?  Town  was 
supposed  to  be  exciting  and  delightful,  and  the  coun- 
try dull  and  flat.  Well,  perhaps  the  country  was  dull 
and  flat.  There  was  nothing  in  it,  save  one  forbidden 
thing,  which  tempted  him  very  much.  But  town !  — 
the  vulgar  routine  of  it,  the  commonplace,  the  vacancy, 
the  same  thing  over  and  over  again.  Why,  a  laborer 
on  the  road,  a  gamekeeper  in  the  woods,  had  some- 
thing to  say  that  varied  at  least  with  the  weather  or 
the  season.  He  did  not  ask,  Are  you  going  here? 
Have  you  been  there  ?  Yet  it  was  for  that  that  a  man 
was  supposed  to  stay  in  London.  To  give  up,  to 
sacrifice  — 

What?  Roger  did  what  Edmund  had  done.  He 
lighted  his  candle  hastily  and  went  off  to  his  room,  to 
escape  —  from  himself,  which  is  a  thing  not  so  easily 
done  as  to  escape  from  a  brother.  "  I  don't  see  why 
—  I  should  n't  go  too."  Edmund  had  got  away  be- 
fore these  words  were  said,  though  he  had  seen  them 
coming.  But  Roger  was  not  so  quick,  and  could  not 
get  away. 


. 


XVIII. 

THE   RETURN. 

IT  is  not  very  excellent  policy,  perhaps,  when  you 
see  the  words  upon  a  man's  lips,  and  know  they  must 
be  uttered  one  time  or  another,  to  run  away  before 
they  can  be  said.  As  likely  as  not  they  will  be  worse 
instead  of  better  when  you  do  hear  them,  taking  harm 
by  the  delay.  When  the  two  Mitfords  met,  next  day, 
which  was  not  till  Edmund  was  ready  for  his  journey, 
it  was  to  him  as  if  some  explosive  which  he  had 
thought  dead  and  harmless  had  suddenly  developed 
and  exploded  under  his  feet,  when  Roger  said  ab- 
ruptly, "  I  think  I  shall  go  home  too." 

"  What!"  his  brother  cried,  with  mingled  astonish- 
ment and  dismay. 

"  What  ?  Is  there  any  harm  in  it  ?  I  'in  sick  of 
town." 

Edmund  said  nothing,  but  waved  his  hand  towards 
all  the  cards  on  the  chimney-piece,  remarking,  how- 
ever, as  he  did  so,  with  a  chill  of  alarm,  that  they  had 
been  taken  down  from  the  glass,  and  lay  together  like 
a  pack  of  cards  among  the  ornaments  of  the  mantel- 
shelf. 

"Oh,  these!  What  do  they  matter?  Half  the 
people  will  never  remember  that  they  asked  me  ;  the 
other  half  will  never  find  out  that  I  have  not  been 
there.  I  might  not  have  thought  of  it  but  for  our  talk 
last  night :  but  why  should  I  make  a  martyr  of  myself 
for  a  pack  of  people  who  care  nothing  for  me  ?  " 


THE   RETURN.  199 

"Not  that,  Roger;  but  a  man  like  you  has  —  du- 
ties. No  one  leaves  London  at  this  time  of  the 
year." 

"You  are  leaving  London.  Ned,  don't  talk  any 
nonsense.  Duties !  I  'm  not  a  young  duke,  if  that 's 
the  sort  of  thing  you  mean." 

"  You  are  the  eldest  son,  which  comes  to  much  the 
same  thing,"  said  Edmund. 

"  With  a  father  who  is  always  threatening  to  disin- 
herit me,  and  can  if  he  pleases ;  and  after  all,  no  such 
mighty  position,  were  it  as  safe  as  the  Tower.  Come, 
Ned,  no  folly ;  London  will  never  put  on  mourning 
for  me.  Should  it  shake  society  to  its  foundations,  I 
am  still  going  home." 

"If  that  is  so,  you  will  do  what  you  please,  no 
doubt,"  said  Edmund,  with  much  gravity;  and  the 
consequence  was  that  they  traveled  down  to  Melcornbe 
together,  as  they  had  left  it,  but  with  no  such  eager- 
ness on  Edmund's  part  to  amuse  and  keep  his  brother 
from  thinking,  which  had  transformed  him  into  an 
exuberant,  not  to  say  loquacious,  conversationalist  on 
the  way  from  home.  The  brothers  now  sat  each  in 
his  own  corner,  moody  and  silent :  Roger,  not  uncon- 
scious that  he  was  taking  a  step  which  might  be  fatal 
to  him :  Edmund,  vexed  and  disappointed,  saying  to 
himself  that  he  might  have  spared  all  this  trouble, 
that  after  all  he  was  but  an  officious  busybody,  and 
that  after  one  tantalizing  moment  of  hope  everything 
was  as  before. 

They  reached  home  while  Stephen's  traces  were 
still  warm.  He  had  returned  to  his  regiment  only  the 
day  before.  "  I  wonder  you  did  not  knock  against 
each  other  somewhere  on  the  road,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  He 's  always  a  queer  fellow ;  he  told  me  you  were 
coming  home." 


200  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"I  did  not  know  it  myself  till  this  morning,"  said 
Roger ;  "  he  must  have  the  second  sight." 

"  He  has  very  keen  eyes  of  his  own,  at  all  events  ; 
he  gave  me  a  number  of  tips,"  said  Mr.  Mitford,  who 
was  apt  to  exalt  the  absent  at  the  expense  of  the 
present.  This  was  the  welcome  the  young  men  re- 
ceived. It  left  an  uncomfortable  impression  on  their 
minds  that  their  shortcomings  had  been  talked  over 
between  Stephen  and  their  father,  which  was  not  at 
all  the  case.  To  Edmund  this  gave  scarcely  any  un- 
easiness, but  it  lit  up  a  dark  glow  of  anger  under 
Roger's  eyes.  They  had  been  talking  him  over,  no 
doubt,  in  that  which  was  his  most  intimate  and  sacred 
secret,  putting  vulgar  interpretations  to  it,  hideous 
developments.  Roger  thought  he  could  hear  the 
mocking  of  Stephen's  laugh,  and  it  raised  in  him  a 
responsive  fury.  What  did  Stephen  know  about 
anything  that  was  sacred?  He  had  his  own  vulgar 
amours,  and  judged  others  by  that  standard.  Roger 
quivered  with  indignation  as  the  image  of  these  possi- 
ble conversations,  which  had  never  taken  place,  came 
before  him. 

The  weather  seemed  to  change  all  in  a  moment  as 
they  left  town,  as  it  sometimes  does  in  the  capricious 
English  spring.  It  had  been  ungenial  and  cold  there ; 
here  it  was  May,  as  that  month  should  be,  but  so  sel- 
dom is,  in  all  the  softness  of  the  early  year,  the  air 
sweet  with  growth  and  blossom,  the  skies  shedding 
balm.  Something  in  this  delicious  sudden  transforma- 
tion went  to  the  young  men's  hearts,  softening  and 
charming  them.  The  first  dinner,  the  domestic  gath- 
ering for  which  Edmund  had  trembled,  passed  over 
quite  harmoniously.  Mr.  Mitford  appeared  for  the 
moment  to  perceive  that  to  irritate  his  son  was  bad 


THE  RETURN.  201 

policy,  and  Nina's  soft  storm  of  questions  as  to 
Geraldine  and  Amy  filled  up  the  silence  at  table. 
Here  unexpectedly  Roger  and  his  father  were  in  ac- 
cord. 

"  Don't  you  think  Gerry  might  ask  me  to  come  and 
see  her?  Don't  you  think  I  might  write  and  say  I 
should  like  to  come  ? "  Nina  no  doubt  was  bolder 
since  Stephen's  judicious  drawing  out  had  put  so  many 
new  ideas  in  her  head. 

"  No,"  said  Roger,  "  certainly  not,  if  you  take  my 
advice." 

"  Oh !  that 's  not  what  Steve  said :  he  said  they 
had  such  fun  !  " 

"I  don't  think,  sir,"  said  Roger  to  his  father,  "it's 
the  kind  of  fun  you  would  approve  of  for  a  girl." 

"  I  have  told  her  so,"  returned  the  Squire.  u  There, 
Nina,  you  hear  what  your  brother  says ;  your  brother 's 
a  good  authority  ;  not  like  Steve,  who  is  a  rover  him- 
self. Run  away  now,  and  let  me  hear  of  Geraldine 
no  more." 

"  Oh,  papa ! "  Nina  exclaimed. 

"  I  tell  you  I  '11  have  no  more  of  it,"  said  Mr. 
Mitford.  "  I  never  liked  that  sort  of  thing.  Your 
mother  was  a  quiet  woman,  and  I  've  always  been 
used  to  quiet  women.  These  girls  ought  to  be  spoken 
to,  —  they  ought  to  be  spoken  to.  But  Stephen  tells 
me  Stathain  is  a  fellow  that  can  take  care  of  his 
wife." 

"  There  is  no  need  for  alarm,  sir,"  remarked  Ed- 
mund :  "  the  girls  mean  no  harm." 

"  I  hate  fast  women,"  said  the  Squire.  "  I  never 
could  bear  them.  Your  mother  was  a  pattern  ;  out  of 
her  own  house  nobody  ever  heard  a  word  of  Mrs.  Mit- 
ford. That 's  the  greatest  praise  a  woman  can  have." 


202  THE  SECOND   SON. 

"That  is  no  longer  the  opinion  of  society,"  said 
Roger.  "  They  think  the  more  a  woman  is  talked  of, 
the  more  noise  she  makes,  the  more  absurdities  she 
does,  the  better.  If  she  has  a  moment's  quiet,  she 
thinks  she  's  out  of  the  swim.  If  she  stays  a  night  at 
home,  she  's  half  dead  with  the  bore  of  it.  Women 
are  not  what  they  used  to  be." 

"  The  more 's  the  pity.  It 's  aU  the  fault  of  this 
ridiculous  education,  which,  thank  Heaven,  I  never 
went  in  for,"  said  the  Squire.  "  They  think  them- 
selves emancipated,  the  little  fools,  and  they  don't  care 
how  far  they  go." 

Edmund  had  an  observation  trembling  on  his  lips, 
to  the  effect  that  education,  which  the  Squire  thanked 
Heaven  he  had  never  given  in  to,  could  scarcely  be 
the  cause  of  his  sister's  failings,  but  he  was  stopped 
by  a  certain  nervous  air  of  seriousness  in  Roger's 
face. 

"  My  own  opinion  is,"  said  Roger,  whose  eyes  had 
an  abstracted  look,  as  if  he  were  ruminating  a  gen- 
eral principle,  "  that  to  find  a  woman  of  the  old  type, 
like  my  mother,  sir,  —  sweet  and  womanly,  you  know, 
and  fond  of  home,  and  satisfied  to  be  happy  there,  — 
whoever  she  was,  would  be  better  than  anything  you 
could  get,  family,  money,  rank,  whatever  you  please, 
and  a  fast  girl  along  with  it.  That  's  my  opinion ; 
and  as  I  've  just  come  from  the  midst  of  them,  I 
think  I  ought  to  know." 

"  All  right,  my  boy,"  assented  the  Squire,  "  I  'm 
with  you  as  far  as  you  go.  Carry  out  your  views,  my 
fine  fellow,  and  you  may  be  sure  you  '11  please  me." 

This  pregnant  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a 
question  on  Nina's  part,  in  which  that  little  person 
took  a  very  practical  view  of  the  matter.  "  Should 


THE  RETURN.  203 

one  always  stay  at  home?"  she  asked.  "If  Geral- 
cline  and  Amy  had  always  stayed  at  home,  they  would 
never  have  been  married,  and  then  you  would  not 
have  got  rid  of  them,  papa.  I  have  heard  you  say 
you  were  glad  to  have  got  rid  of  them.  If  I  am 
never  to  go  on  any  visit,  nor  see  any  one,  you  will 
never,  never  get  rid  of  me." 

"  Run  away,  Nina.  We  've  had  enough  of  this. 
The  first  thing  a  woman  ought  to  learn,"  said  Mr. 
Mitford,  "  is  when  to  go,  after  dinner.  Five  min- 
utes after  the  servants,  —  that's  long  enough.  Run 
away." 

But  the  conversation  languished  after  Nina's  little 
white  figure  stole  reluctantly  out  of  the  room.  The 
twilight  was  sweet,  the  windows  were  open,  the  air 
was  balmy  with  the  breath  of  early  summer.  The 
Squire  talked  on,  but  his  sons  paid  slight  heed.  He 
continued  the  discussion  of  women  which  Roger  had 
begun.  But  it  is  rare  that  such  a  discussion  can  be 
carried  on  without  a  jar,  especially  when  the  company 
is  a  mingled  one,  and  youth,  still  accessible  to  ro- 
mance, not  to  say  actually  touched  by  the  glamour  of 
love,  has  to  listen  to  the  prelections  of  an  elder  man 
upon  this  delicate  subject.  The  Squire  did  not  trans- 
gress decorum,  he  was  not  disposed  that  way  ;  but  he 
was  full  of  that  contempt  for  women  which  men  of 
his  age,  especially  when  freed  from  all  domestic  inter- 
course with  the  inferior  sex,  often  entertain.  And  it 
may  be  supposed  that  his  talk  about  what  constituted 
a  good  mother  and  continuer  of  the  race,  and  all  the 
domestic  qualifications  which  he  thought  necessary, 
was  of  a  kind  little  congenial  with  the  perturbed  yet 
absorbing  passion  which  Roger  had  held  at  arm's- 
length  so  long,  only  to  fall  back  into  with  redoubled 


204  THE   SECOND  SON. 

force  and  entrainement  now ;  or  with  the  more  vision- 
ary, yet  at  the  same  time  more  highly  pitched  senti- 
ment of  Edmund,  whose  feet  were  being  drawn  away 
by  the  sweet,  rising  tide,  but  who  had  not  yet  ven- 
tured to  launch  fairly  upon  it.  Roger  was  the  more 
impatient  of  the  two,  for  his  mind  had  gone  much 
further  than  that  of  his  brother.  He  was  indeed 
moment  by  moment  passing  out  of  his  own  control, 
feeling  his  feet  and  his  heart  and  his  thoughts  swept 
along  by  that  resistless  flood,  and  all  the  will  he  ever 
had  against  it  gone  like  a  useless  barrier  across  a 
river.  He  bore  his  father's  matter-of-fact  discourse 
as  long  as  human  nature,  in  so  very  different  a  vein 
of  sentiment,  could  do ;  and  it  was  at  last  quite  sud- 
denly, with  a  start,  as  if  he  had  been  touched  by 
something  intolerable,  that  he  rose  from  his  chair. 
"  Excuse  me,"  he  murmured,  "  I  've  got  a  headache, 
I  must  try  the  open  air ;  "  and  he  slid  out  into  the 
gathering  grayness  of  twilight  like  a  shadow,  leaving 
Mr.  Mitford  open-mouthed,  with  the  half  of  his  sen- 
tence unsaid. 

"I'm  afraid  Roger  is  not  very  well,"  cried  Ed- 
mund, getting  up  ;  "  if  you  '11  excuse  me  too,  sir" — 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  Squire.  "  Excuse 
you  ?  "  No,  I  won't  excuse  you  ;  sit  down,  I  tell  you, 
Ned.  What!  your  first  night  at  home,  and  neither 
one  nor  the  other  of  you  can  spend  half  an  hour  with 
your  father  after  dinner  ?  Let  Roger  alone  :  you  're 
not  a  couple  of  girls  to  make  yourselves  interesting, 
fussing  over  each  other's  headaches.  I  suppose  the 
truth  of  the  matter  is,  he  wants  his  cigar.  I  'm  glad 
he  's  gone,  for  one  thing.  You  can  tell  me  what  he  's 
been  about,  and  in  what  mind  he 's  come  home." 

"  I  can  tell  you  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,"  said 


THE  RETURN.  205 

Edmund,  not  sufficiently  under  his  own  command  to 
overcome  his  annoyance  at  being  detained,  and  his 
fear  as  to  what  his  brother  might  do.  Then  he 
added,  "  I  must  follow  him,  father ;  for  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  detain  me  !  He  may  be  going- " — 

"  Sit  down,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  Squire,  with  a  pow- 
erful hand  on  his  son's  arm,  forcing  him  back  into  his 
chair.  "  Let  him  go  to  —  the  devil,  if  he  likes :  if 
he  means  to,  do  you  think  you  can  keep  him  back?" 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Edmund,  yielding,  with  once 
more  that  sense  of  impotence  which  makes  the  heart 
sick.  What  could  he  do,  indeed?  Certainly  not 
keep  back  Roger's  fated  feet  from  the  path  which  any 
opposition  would  make  him  only  the  more  determined 
to  tread.  No  man  can  save  his  brother.  To  have  to 
submit  to  his  father's  interrogations  was  hard,  too. 

"Where  may  he  be  going ?  What  does  he  want? " 
asked  Mr.  Mitford.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  he  's 
come  home  as  great  a  fool  as  ever  ?  Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  —  Why,  what  was  that  about  women  ?  What 
did  you  understand  by  that  ?  The  fellow 's  a  liar 
as  well  as  a  fool,  if  it  was  n't  Elizabeth  Travers  he 
meant.  Right  sort  of  woman,  whoever  she  was ; 
better  than  rank,  and  so  forth,  —  well !  shes  nobody  ; 
but  she  's  worth  a  score  of  the  fast  ones.  Is  n't  that 
true  ?  What  do  you  mean,  confusing  my  mind  again, 
when  what  he  has  said  is  as  clear  as  daylight  ?  I  tell 
you,  Ned,  if  he  's  deceiving  me  again  "  — 

"  I  never  said  he  was  deceiving  you.  I  am  not  my 
brother's  keeper.  I  can't  give  you  any  account  of 
Roger." 

"You  mean  you  won't.  I  know,  honor  among 
thieves.  You  'd  rather  see  your  father's  heart  broken, 
and  all  his  plans  put  out,  than  split  upon  your  brother. 


206  THE  SECOND  SON. 

That 's  your  code,  never  mind  what  becomes  of  me. 
Your  father  's  nobody,  and  his  interests  are  nothing- : 
but  stand  together  like  a  band  of  conspirators,  and 
keep  him  in  the  dark.  Keep  him  in  the  dark !  — 
that 's  what  you  think  honor.  It 's  not  the  first  time 
I  've  found  it  out." 

"  Father,  I  don't  think  you  have  any  right  to  ques- 
tion me  so.  I  should  not  betray  my  brother  if  I 
could  ;  but  as  it  happens,  I  can't,  even  if  I  wished, 
for  I  know  nothing.  We  have  not  been  very  much 
together  even  in  an  outside  way,  and  if  you  think  he 
opens  his  heart  to  me  "  — 

"  To  whom  does  he  open  his  heart,  then  ?  "  cried 
the  Squire.  "  Has  he  got  a  heart  to  open  ?  It  does 
n't  seem  so,  so  far  as  his  family  is  concerned.  Now 
look  here,  Ned,  this  sort  of  thing  can't  go  on.  He 
must  make  up  his  mind  one  way  or  the  other.  If  he 
will  not  take  my  way,  he  shall  not  take  my  prop- 
erty ;  that 's  as  clear  as  daylight.  If  he 's  meditating 
any  disgrace  to  his  family,  it  shall  never  be  done  in 
this  house,  I  can  answer  for  that.  You  'd  better  warn 
him  ;  you  shall  have  it,  not  he." 

"  I,  sir !  "  cried  Edmund,  springing  from  his  chair. 

"  No  heroics,  for  I  sha'n't  believe  them.  Melcombe 
is  mine,  to  dispose  of  it  as  I  please.  Unless  Roger 
does  as  I  wish,  he  sha'n't  have  it,  not  a  square  foot  of 
it.  You  shall  have  it ;  I  've  said  so  before.  You 
think  I  'in  joking,  perhaps  ?  I  never  joke  on  such 
subjects ;  you  shall  have  it.  There !  my  mind  is 
made  up,  and  there  's  not  another  word  to  say." 

"  Stop  a  moment,  father,"  exclaimed  Edmund. 
"Nothing  in  this  world,  neither  your  will,  nor  the 
law,  nor  any  motive  in  existence,  would  make  me  take 
my  brother's  place.  I  don't  joke  any  more  than  you 
do,  once  for  all." 


THE  RETURN,  207 

"  Bah  !  "  said  the  Squire  ;  "  wait  till  you  're  tried. 
Your  brother's  place  !  It  is  nobody's  place  ;  it 's  my 
place  to  the  last  moment  I  can  hold  it,  and  then  it 
goes  to  whoever  I  choose.  Hold  your  tongue,  Ned. 
And  now  you  can  go  and  look  after  your  brother. 
Take  care  of  him,  pretty  innocent :  don't  let  him  fall 
into  bad  hands.  You  '11  take  greater  care  of  him  than 
ever,  now  you  know  what  '11  happen  if  you  don't  suc- 
ceed." 

He  went  off,  with  a  laugh  that  rang  through  the 
room,  tramping  along  the  corridor  with  his  quick  foot- 
step, which  was  not  heavy  for  so  large  a  man,  yet 
vibrated  through  the  house,  finding  out  somehow 
every  plank  that  sounded  and  every  joint  that  creaked, 
as  no  other  step  did.  When  that  hasty  progress  had 
concluded  with  the  swing  of  the  library  door,  another 
door  opened  softly,  and  Nina  stole  in. 

"  Oh,  is  papa  angry  ?  Oh,  Edmund,  is  it  about 
me?" 

"  Nina,  you  have  been  listening  again  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  oh,  no :  besides,  I  could  not  hear  a 
single  word ;  everything  was  quiet,  as  if  you  had  been 
the  best  of  friends.  It  is  only  his  step  like  that,  and 
then  he  slammed  the  library  door." 

"  The  library  door  always  makes  a  noise ;  no  one 
was  angry ;  there  was  not  a  word  said  about  you.  Be 
satisfied,  Nina  ;  I  '11  come  and  talk  to  you  afterwards. 
I  'm  going  out  a  little  now." 

"Are  you  going  after  Roger,  Edmund?  for  I'm 
sure  he  's  gone  to  the  West  Lodge."  - 

"  What  do  you  know  about  the  West  Lodge  ? 
What  nonsense  you  talk,  Nina !  Wrhat  should  Roger 
do  there  ?  He  has  gone  to  smoke  his  cigar." 

"I  know  very  well,"  said  the  girl,  "he  had  no  cigar. 


208  THE  SECOND  SON. 

He  came  round  to  the  hall  to  get  a  hat,  and  then  he 
went  off.  Oh !  I  know  quite  well  what  it  means  when 
people  walk  in  that  way." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  very  good  at  explaining  :  going  straight 
on,  with  their  heads  bent,  as  if  they  did  not  want  to 
look  where  they  were  going,  because  they  knew  so 
well.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know?  " 

Edmund,  alas,  knew  very  well  what  she  meant. 
He  flung  himself  back  into  a  chair  with  that  sense  of 
despairing  which  had  seized  him  so  strongly  on  va- 
rious occasions  already.  What  could  he  do  to  stop 
those  steps  of  fate  ? 


XIX. 

ANOTHER  TWILIGHT. 

ROGER  went  out  into  the  twilight  without  seeing  any- 
thing, with  his  head  bent,  taking  long  steps  straight 
forward,  as  his  sister  had  said.  While  he  had  been 
musing  the  fire  had  burned.  All  the  way  down  in  the 
silence  of  the  noisy  train,  all  through  the  dinner  hour 
with  its  needful  ceremonials,  the  thoughts  so  long 
repressed  had  been  flowing  on  and  on  in  full  stream, 
until  his  heart  was  full  and  could  no  longer  contain 
itself.  He  had  relieved  himself  a  little  by  these  enig- 
matical speeches  about  women.  "  A  woman  of  the 
old  type,  like  my  mother,  sweet  and  womanly  and 
fond  of  home,  and  satisfied  to  be  happy  there  —  who- 
ever she  might  be — would  be  better  " —  It  was  a 
relief  to  say  this :  it  was  the  last  development  of  the 
thought  which  had  given  him  so  much  comfort,  per- 
haps the  first  thought  which  had  given  him  any  com- 
fort at  all  in  the  whole  matter.  Instead  of  a  fast 
woman,  or  a  horsey  woman,  or  a  woman  given  up  to 
"  fun  "  and  sport,  to  find  one  who  was  all  a  woman, 
the  flower  of  life,  the  sweet,  the  gentle,  and  the  true. 
No  one  could  deny  that ;  it  was  clear  as  daylight.  It 
might  be  a  good  thing,  if  you  so  chanced  it,  to  find 
such  a  woman  in  your  own  class,  —  one  that  knew  all 
the  little  punctilios,  how  to  receive  your  guests,  and 
sit  at  the  head  of  your  table,  and  all  that.  Yes,  it 
might  be  a  good  thing:  one  who  had  connections 


210  THE  SECOND  SON. 

something  like  your  own,  though  everybody  says  your 
wife's  relations  are  a  bore.  That  might  be  an  ad- 
vantage, if  it  so  happened.  But  otherwise,  instead  of 
one  of  the  society  women,  those  creatures  who  cared 
for  nothing  but  amusement,  how  much  better  to  have 
a  fresh  and  uncontaminated  being,  vigorous  and  pure 
as  nature  could  make  her,  knowing  no  harm  nor 
thinking  any !  A  wife  like  that  brought  new  blood 
and  new  possibilities  to  a  house.  It  was  a  thing  that 
ought  to  be  done,  for  mere  policy,  from  time  to  time. 
True,  there  might  be  drawbacks,  — drawbacks  that 
were  very  evident  on  the  face  of  them  :  the  father 
and  mother,  for  example,  who  would  turn  everything 
upside  down.  That  could  never  be  a  pleasant  thought : 
but  it  was  better  than  a  band  of  fast  girls  and  doubt- 
ful men  who  would  convert  one 's  house  into  a  bear- 
garden. People  put  up  with  these  last  because  the 
offenders  had  good  names,  because  they  were  in  "  so- 
ciety," though  Heaven  knows  their  manners  were 
often  bad  enough,  —  worse  than  the  Fords.  The 
Fords  —  well,  no  doubt  that  would  be  a  bitter  pill ! 
But  at  least  it  was  a  thing  which  nobody  would  have 
any  business  with,  —  a  skeleton  which  could  be  com- 
fortably disposed  of  in  the  cupboard  at  home.  Bet- 
ter that  a  thousand  times  than  the  other.  He  repeated 
this  to  himself  again  and  again,  or  rather  it  turned 
over  and  over  in  his  mind,  giving  him  the  most  curi- 
ous justification  in  everything  he  was  doing.  He  had 
struggled  before  as  against  a  thing  that  had  no  ex- 
cuse, but  now  he  had  found  one ;  now  it  seemed  to 
him  of  two  possibilities  the  better  one,  —  far  better 
for  himself,  for  the  race,  and  the  name. 

The   spring   night   was   very  sweet.      There   were 
great  bushes  of  hawthorn  here  and  there,  gleaming 


ANOTHER    TWILIGHT.  211 

whitely  through  the  faint  half  light,  filling  the  air 
with  their  fragrance.  He  wandered  from  point  to 
point,  half  guided  by  those  trees,  taking  much  the 
same  course  that  Stephen  had  done.  It  was  a  fort- 
night later,  and  the  moon,  which  had  been  then 
young,  was  now  on  the  wane  and  rose  late.  That  was 
one  element  of  enchantment  withdrawn;  and  Roger, 
though  much  more  apt  to  regard  things  poetically 
than  his  brother,  was  not  doing  so  to-night.  He  did 
not  think  of  the  sweetness  of  the  evening,  scarcely 
even  of  her  sweetness  who  was  drawing  him  towards 
the  place  where  she  was.  It  was,  he  would  have  said, 
the  serious,  the  practical  part  of  the  question  that  oc- 
cupied him  now.  He  had  not  any  love  meeting  to 
look  forward  to,  as  Stephen  had  ;  no  feeling  of  tri- 
umph, no  excitement  of  the  senses,  was  in  him.  He 
was  going  over  the  matter,  as  he  thought,  coolly,  bal- 
ancing the  advantages  and  disadvantages,  and  for  the 
first  time  seeing  all  that  was  to  be  said  on  the  favora- 
ble side.  He  was  hardly  aware,  even,  that  all  this 
time  he  was  coming  nearer  and  nearer  to  Lily.  He 
had  not  had  any  thought,  when  he  set  out,  of  seeing 
her  that  night. 

When  he  saw  something  moving  among  the  trees, 
not  far  from  the  West  Lodge.  Roger  was  startled,  al- 
most alarmed.  He  went  towards  the  thing  by  in- 
stinct, saying  to  himself,  however,  that  it  must  be  one 
of  the  servants,  or  perhaps  some  passing  villager,  not 
aware  that  this  was  not  the  permitted  way.  He  was 
in  the  clothes  he  had  worn  at  dinner,  and,  like  Ste- 
phen, the  whiteness  of  his  linen  was  like  a  moving 
speck  in  the  dark.  He  went  on,  quickening  his  pace, 
he  hardly  knew  why;  going  up  to  the  spot  where 
somebody  must  be,  partly  with  the  instinct  of  pro- 


212  THE   SECOND  SON. 

prietorship  to  warn  off  an  intruder,  partly  with  a  less 
defined  feeling.  Something  indistinct  separated  itself 
from  the  trees,  as  he  went  on,  and  turned  towards 
him.  There  was  a  little  cry,  a  tremulous  Oh  !  and  a 
sound  like  the  flutter  of  a  bird  —  and  was  it  Lily, 
with  a  quick  movement,  who  came  to  meet  him,  as  if 
she  had  expected  him,  as  if  she  would  have  run  to 
him?  He  asked,  with  a  sudden  leap  of  his  heart, 
"Who  is  it?  who  is  it?  —  Lily?"  —  making  a  rapid 
step  forward,  so  rapid  that  she  was  almost  in  his 
arms.  Then  there  was  a  quick  recoil,  a  cry  almost 
wild,  with  a  sharp  note  of  wonder  in  it,  — "  Mr. 
Roger !  "  —  and  he  saw  that  it  was  Lily,  but  Lily 
drawing  back,  startled  and  frightened  ;  not  ready,  as 
he  had  thought,  for  one  moment  of  surprise,  to  fling 
herself  into  his  arms. 

"  Yes,  it  is  Roger,"  he  said.  "  You  thought  it  was 
—  some  one  else  ?  " 

"  I  was  looking  for  —  my  father  —  he  is  late,  and  I 
came  out  to  look  for  him.  Mother  was  —  a  little 
anxious."  Lily  was  breathless  with  alarm  or  some 
other  feeling,  and  panted  between  the  words  —  "  and 
we  did  not  know,  sir,  that  you  had  come  home." 

"  You  could  not.  I  came  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  I  scarcely  know  why." 

"  They  say,"  said  Lily,  still  panting  a  little,  "  that 
it  is  very  gay  in  London  at  this  time  of  the  year." 

"  Yes,  it 's  very  gay.  I  am  not  fond  of  gayety. 
The  park  here,  and  a  young  gentle  creature,  like  j-ou, 
walking  in  it  in  the  sweet  evening,  that  is  more  de- 
lightful to  me." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Roger." 

"  You  think  I  don't  mean  it,  perhaps,  but  I  do,"  said 
Roger,  feeling  his  own  breath  come  a  little  quickly. 


ANOTHER    TWILIGHT.  213 

"  You  suit  the  soft  darkness  of  the  evening,  Lily. 
It  is  like  poetry,  and  so  are  you." 

"  I  am  only  a  poor  girl,  Mr.  Roger,"  said  Lily.  It 
was  not  a  speech  such  as  she  was  usually  disposed  to 
make.  She  could  not  tell,  indeed,  by  what  impulse  it 
came  from  her.  There  was  a  little  vexation  in  it,  for 
she  could  not  help  thinking,  with  a  faint  pang,  that 
Stephen  had  never  said  anything  to  her  so  pretty  as 
this.  But  then  Stephen  laughed  at  poetry:  he  was 
superior  to  it. 

"  Poor  or  rich  makes  little  difference  that  I  know 
of,"  said  Roger,  who  also  had  struck  a  quite  unusual 
vein.  "  A  true  woman  is  always  in  her  fit  place." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  Mr.  Roger,"  ex- 
claimed Lily,  rousing  up  to  the  occasion,  "  for  there 
are  some  people  who  don't  think  so  well  of  us  as 
that :  they  scold  poor  mother  for  me,  as  if  I  were  not 
fit  for  my  own  home." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  be  offended,  Lily :  but  no  one 
can  help  seeing  that  the  keeper's  lodge  is  not  the  sort 
of  place  from  which  one  would  expect  you  to  come." 

"  It  is  my  home,  though,"  said  the  girl ;  and  she 
added  tremulously,  "  Do  you  think,  if  I  were  in  the 
position  of  a  lady,  I  would  n't,  I  should  n't  —  shame 
those  that  put  me  there  "  — 

"  Shame  !  "  Roger  cried,  with  indignation.  It  all 
seemed  to  him  very  strange,  as  if  he  had  walked  into 
some  fairy  place  where  there  were  no  disguises,  and 
carried  his  breast  uncovered,  so  that  the  throbbings 
might  be  seen.  "  I  cannot  imagine  any  place,"  he 
added  gravely,  "  so  beautiful  or  so  refined  that  you 
would  not  be  in  your  place  there." 

Even  in  the  uncertainty  of  twilight  Roger  saw  the 
blush  of  delight  that  covered  the  girl's  face ;  but  he 
did  not  know  that  it  was  not  for  him. 


214  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  perhaps  I  '11  never  be  any- 
thing but  what  I  am  :  but  if  I  should  ever  be  differ- 
ent, I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  don't  think  I  'd  bring 
my  —  friends  to  shame." 

'*  Hush  !  hush  !  "  he  said,  "  that  can  never  have 
anything  to  do  with  you." 

Lily  had  gone  on  towards  the  lodge,  and  Roger 
walked  by  her  in  a  curious  fascination,  like  that  of  a 
dream.  He  had  never  expected  nor  planned  to  have 
this  interview.  He  was  not  even  prepared  for  any- 
thing it  might  lead  to.  He  had  never  talked  to  her 
before  in  the  freedom  of  complete  solitude,  with  no 
one  near  them  to  interrupt.  If  he  had  ever  seen 
her  alone,  it  had  been  but  for  a  few  minutes,  with 
Mrs.  Ford  always  ready  to  come  in.  But  the  effect 
of  finding  himself  thus  with  her  bewildered  rather 
than  encouraged  him.  He  had  let  the  first  overflow- 
ings of  his  heart  have  vent,  which  might  be  mere 
vague  compliment,  and  no  more.  But  her  presence 
in  the  midst  of  this  stillness,  the  sensation  as  if  they 
two  were  all  alone  in  the  world,  no  one  near  them, 
was  for  the  present  as  much  as  his  mind  could  take 
in.  He  was  prepared  for  nothing  more.  The  silence 
was  so  long  that  at  last  Lily  herself  spoke. 

"  It 's  very  sweet,"  she  said,  "  to  have  the  park  to 
walk  in.  It 's  beautiful  in  the  evenings.  There  has 
been  a  moon,  but  now  it  is  on  the  wane,  and  does 
not  rise  till  late." 

"  Is  this  where  you  walk  always,  —  not  down  to 
the  village  ?  " 

"The  village!— oh,  no!  What  should  I  do  in 
the  village?  I  have  no  friends  there.  It  is  hard 
upon  a  girl  when  she  has  got  a  better  education,  and 
cannot  move  in  the  class  she  belongs  to,  Mr.  Roger. 


ANOTHER    TWILIGHT.  215 

They  don't  like  ine  for  that ;  and  they  're  so  different, 
I  don't  care  for  them." 

"You  can  have  nothing  in  common  with  them," 
he  said. 

"No,"  assented  Lily.  "I  should  like  to  be  with 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen :  but  they  would  have  noth- 
ing to  say  to  me." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Lily.  That  is  not  the  case, 
at  least  so  far  as  —  some  are  concerned.  Women, 
people  say,  are  jealous.  But  on  the  other  hand  "  — 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Roger,"  said  Lily,  "  I  know  there 
are  gentlemen  who  are  pleased  to  come  and  talk. 
They  think  it  amusing  to  see  me  in  my  father's  cot- 
tage. But  I  hope  you  don't  suppose  that 's  what  I 
care  for.  I  think  more  of  myself  than  that." 

"  I  beg  37our  pardon,"  he  cried,  "  with  all  my 
heart.  I  hope  you  don't  imagine  I  could  ever  mean 
—  Lily,  you  don't  know  with  what  reverence  I  think 
of  you.  I  have  been  among  women  who  are  not  fit 
to  tie  your  shoes  ;  and  to  think  of  you  has  kept  me 
from  despising  my  fellow-creatures  and  growing  bitter 
and  hard.  You  don't  know  what  it  does  for  a  man 
to  remember  a  girl  so  spotless  and  sweet  as  you." 

Lily  was  frightened  by  the  meaning  of  his  voice, 
the  earnestness  with  which  he  spoke,  and  the  fine 
words,  finer  than  anything  that  had  ever  been  said 
to  her  before.  And  she  reflected  that  to  have  two 
brothers  making  love  to  her  would  be  very  strange, 
that  it  would  scarcely  be  right.  She  hastened  her 
steps  a  little  over  the  soft  undulations  of  the  turf. 

"  You  are  too  kind,  Mr.  Roger,"  she  said.  "  If 
you  knew  me  better,  you  would  not  perhaps  think  so 
well  of  me.  I  am  well  enough,  but  I  am  not  so 
good  as  that." 


216  THE   SECOXD   SOX. 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  thinking;  well  or  ill,"  ex- 
claimed Roger,  with  the  strange  sensation  going 
through  all  his  being  that  fate  had  got  hold  of  him ; 
that  the  current  against  which  he  had  been  strug- 
gling, sometimes  so  feebly,  had  at  last  got  the  better 
of  him,  had  swept  him  off  his  feet,  and  was  carry- 
ing him  away.  "  1  have  long  ceased  to  think  so  far 
as  you  are  concerned.  I  can  only  feel  that  you  have 
been  a  new  life  to  me  since  ever  I  first  saw  you.  I 
have  fought  against  it  —  I  will  not  conceal  that  from 
you  —  and  tried  hard.  Lily,  I  wonder  if  you  ever 
thought  of  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Roger,"  she  said  tremulously,  walk- 
ing on  faster;  though  in  her  agitation  she  kept 
stumbling  as  she  went.  "  We  all  thought  you  very 
kind.  It  has  been  very  good  of  you,  coming  to  the 
lodge.  It  is  getting  late,  and  I  must  hurry  home. 
Perhaps  father  has  got  in  the  other  way." 

"Lily,  stop  a  moment:  kind  was  not  what  I 
meant.  Kind  !  —  it  is  you  who  must  be  kind  to  me, 
Lily.  Don't  you  really  know  what  I  mean?"  he 
asked,  touching  her  arm  with  his  hand.  "  I  want 
you  to  be  my  wife." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Roger !  "  cried  Lily,  moving  suddenly 
away  from  him  with  a  voice  and  gesture  of  horror. 
She  said  to  herself  in  her  fright,  her  heart  almost 
standing  still  for  a  moment,  then  leaping  up  again 
in  a  very  frenzy  of  excitement,  that  it  was  like  being 
courted  by  a  brother.  Should  she  tell  him  ?  How 
could  she  answer  him  ?  And  she  engaged  to  Stephen  ! 
She  had  never  felt  so  terrified  —  so  overwhelmed,  in 
her  life. 

"  You  are  frightened,"  Roger  said.  "  Why  are 
you  frightened?  Don't  think  of  anything  but  our- 


ANOTHER    TWILIGHT.  217 

selves,  Lily.  Be  selfish  for  a  moment,  if  you  can 
be  selfish.  Everything  will  come  right  afterwards 
for  the  others,  if  it  is  right  between  you  and  me." 

"  For  the  others  ? "  she  repeated,  faltering,  gaz- 
ing at  him  with  large  and  tearful  eyes  through  the 
dimness  of  the  night. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  cried  impatiently.  "  You  are 
thinking  of  your  father  and  of  my  father.  All  that 
will  come  right.  Lily,  you  must  have  known  :  I  have 
not  taken  you  by  surprise.  Will  you  ?  will  you  ? 
My  Lily !  Words  cannot  say  what  is  in  my  heart 
for  you." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Roger,"  she  exclaimed,  again  putting  up 
her  hands  between  them,  "  don't,  please  don't  talk  so ! 
I  mustn't  listen  to  you.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I 
were  —  not  a  proper  girl.  Mr.  Roger,  oh,  for  every- 
body's sake,  go  away,  go  away." 

"  For  everybody's  sake  ? "  he  said,  the  moisture 
coming  to  his  eyes.  "  Is  that  what  they  have  put  into 
your  dear  mind,  that  you  must  not  listen  to  me,  for 
everybody's  sake  ?  But,  my  dearest,  if  I  answer  for 
it  that  nobody  shall  come  to  harm,  if  I  tell  you  that 
all  shall  be  well?  Surely  you  may  trust  me  that 
nobody  shall  come  to  harm." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  hurried  along,  stumbling 
over  the  inequalities  in  her  path,  with  her  head 
averted  a  little  and  horror  in  her  heart.  "  Stephen  ! 
Stephen  !  "  she  said  to  herself ;  but  she  dared  not 
utter  his  name.  What  would  Stephen  think  if  he 
heard  his  brother  thus  offering  her  himself  and  all 
he  had  ?  In  the  shock  of  fancied  guilt,  Lily  could 
not  realize  what  was  the  offer  that  was  being  made. 
The  heir  of  Melcombe  and  all  that  he  had  !  Her 
brain  was  not  even  touched  by  the  magnificence  of 


218  THE  SECOND  SON. 

the  conquest.  Perhaps  she  had  not  yet  time  to  real- 
ize it.  She  was  eager  for  the  shelter  of  the  cottage, 
eager  to  get  away  from  him,  terrified  to  betray  herself, 
still  more  terrified  lest  she  should  do  or  say  some- 
thing that  would  make  Stephen  angry  :  his  brother, 
which  was  the  same  as  her  own  brother,  —  something 
too  horrible  to  think  of !  He  went  on  speaking,  she 
scarcely  heard  what,  as  he  hurried  on  beside  her; 
begging  her  to  pause,  to  think  ;  telling  her  he  would 
wait  for  his  answer,  that  he  saw  she  was  beside  her- 
self with  fear.  "But  why?  why?"  Roger  cried. 
"  My  sweet  Lily,  do  you  think  I  would  risk  your 
father's  living  ?  Do  you  think  I  would  do  him  harm  ? 
If  my  father  even  should  stand  in  our  way,  do  you 
think  I  would  n't  keep  him  from  suffering  ?  Hear 
reason,  dearest,  hear  reason !  "  He  was  out  of 
breath,  and  so  was  Lily.  She  only  cried,  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Roger !  "  as  she  hastened  on. 

Mrs.  Ford  stood  at  her  garden  gate  looking  out  for 
Lily,  and  saw  with  wonder  and  a  shock  at  her  heart 
the  figure  which  accompanied  her  child,  clearly  a  gen- 
tleman, with  his  white  shirt  front,  otherwise  indistin- 
guishable in  the  night.  Her  first  thought  was  that 
some  one  was  insulting  Lily. 

"  I  'm  here,  dear,  I  'in  here ;  you  're  all  right, 
you  're  close  at  home  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Oh,  mother,  it 's  Mr.  Roger !  "  cried  Lily  in  re- 
ply ;  but  she  did  not  pause  as  if  her  mother's  pres- 
ence reassured  her.  "  Good-night,  sir,"  she  said,  and 
ran  in.  And  in  the  stillness  of  the  place  the  lover 
and  the  mother,  facing  each  other  in  the  dark,  could 
hear  her  footsteps  climbing  hurriedly  up  the  narrow, 
steep  staircase  till  she  reached  her  room,  in  which 
sanctuary  both  sight  and  sound  of  her  disappeared. 


ANOTHER   TWILIGHT.  219 

Mrs.  Ford  and  Roger  were  left  standing,  con- 
fronting one  another,  and  the  position  was  not  with- 
out its  disagreeable  side.  Mrs.  Ford  looked  at 
Roger,  and  her  fingers  began  to  fumble  with  her 
apron.  Fear  for  her  daughter,  uneasiness  in  the 
presence  of  her  master's  son,  whom  she  was  so  un- 
willing to  offend,  took  all  assurance  from  her  tone. 
And  yet,  if  any  wrong  had  been  done  to  her  child 
— "  Mr.  Roger,"  she  said,  trembling,  "  you  have 
given  my  Lily  a  fright." 

"  It  appears  so.  Mrs.  Ford,  I  hope  you  will  stand 
my  friend  and  bring  her  to  hear  reason.  It  must  be 
Ford  and  my  father  she  is  thinking  of.  No  harm 
shall  come  to  Ford.  I  have  asked  her  to  be  my 
wife." 

Mrs.  Ford  gave  a  shriek  which  echoed  out  into 
the  stillness  among  the  trees.  "Oh!  good  Lord! 
—  Mr.  Roger !  "  she  cried. 


XX. 

BROUGHT   TO   BOOK. 

THERE  is  at  once  something  very  exciting  and 
strangely  calming  in  having  at  last  carried  out  an 
intention  long  brooding  in  the  mind.  The  thrill  of 
the  real  and  actual  through  all  the  veins  is  sud- 
denly met  and  hushed  in  the  awe  of  the  accom- 
plished. And  all  the  hundred  questions  which  had 
been  distracting  the  spirit,  —  shall  I  ?  shall  I  not  ? 
shall  it  be  now  ?  soon  ?  a  lifetime  hence  ?  will  it  be 
for  good  ?  will  it  be  for  evil  ?  —  all  these  doubts,  un- 
certainties, peradventures,  cease  and  disappear,  leav- 
ing a  curious  vacancy  and  awe  of  silence  in  the  soul. 
No  need  for  them  any  longer;,  no  room  for  further 
debate.  Whether  it  ought  to  have  been  now  or  never, 
whether  it  was  for  good  or  evil,  it  is  done,  done,  and 
never  can  be  undone.  Perhaps  to  the  most  happy 
such  a  crisis  is  something  of  a  shock,  and  in  the  midst 
of  rapture  even  a  regret  may  breathe,  for  the  time 
when  everything  was  still  wrapped  in  the  mists  of  un- 
certainty, everything  possible,  nothing  accomplished. 
Probably,  even  in  such  a  matter  as  a  declaration  of 
love,  the  fact  is  always  less  delightful  than  the  antici- 
pation. Fancy  alone  is  high  fantastical ;  the  imagina- 
tion which  gives  us  so  many  of  our  highest  pleasures 
is  exigent.  A  look,  a  touch,  the  inflection  of  a  tone, 
may  offend  its  overwrought  expectations,  and  reality 
can  never  be  so  wholly  sweet  as  the  pictures  it  has 
drawn. 


BROUGHT   TO  BOOK.  221 

Far  more  than  in  ordinary  cases  was  this  the  case 
with  Roger.  The  melting  of  modest  half-reluctance 
of  which  he  had  dreamed  ;  the  shy,  sweet  wonder  of 
the  girl  to  whom  he  was  opening  (how  could  he  help 
knowing  that  ?)  gates  as  of  heaven ;  the  pause  of 
delicate  hesitation,  doubt,  alarm,  all  of  which  his 
love  would  have  so  amply  cleared  away,  —  these  were 
not  what  he  had  encountered.  His  suit  had  been 
received  with  an  appearance  of  terror  very  different 
from  that  veiled  and  tremulous  happiness  which  he 
had  imagined  to  himself.  She  had  been  not  shy,  not 
trembling  only,  but  afraid,  in  a  panic  of  real  terror, 
anxious  to  escape  from  him  ;  too  much  terrified  to 
hear  what  he  had  to  say.  To  be  sure,  he  felt  him- 
self able  to  account  for  this,  in  a  way  which  exalted 
and  ennobled  Lily,  since  it  was  her  utter  unselfish- 
ness, her  preference  of  her  father's  interests  and  of 
his,  Roger's  interests,  to  her  own,  her  determination 
to  allow  no  quarrel  on  her  account,  no  family  break- 
up, no  endangerment  of  others,  which  had  made  her 
receive  him  so  strangely.  But  yet  it  had  been  a  dis- 
appointment. He  had  not,  indeed,  allowed  his  im- 
agination to  dwell  on  that  scene  ;  other  questions,  far 
more  dark  and  tragic,  had  kept  him  from  such  lover's 
dreams  ;  but  yet  by  turns,  in  the  pauses  of  his  anx- 
ious thoughts,  there  had  gleamed  upon  him  a  sudden 
picture  of  how  that  gentle  heart  would  understand 
his,  of  the  struggle  in  Lily's  transparent  countenance, 
the  spring  of  delight,  the  pause  of  soft  alarm.  He 
had  seen  these  things  by  a  side  glance.  But  the 
picture  had  not  been  realized. 

This  was  the  first  sensation.  Then  followed  others 
more  personal.  He  had  done  this  thing  over  which 
he  had  hesitated  for  months,  which  he  had  recognized 


222  THE  SECOND  SON. 

as  a  revolution  in  his  life,  full  of  terrible,  perhaps 
tragical,  consequences.  He  had  foreseen  all  these, 
both  great  and  little,  from  his  own  banishment  from 
his  father's  house  (which  did  not  seem  a  vei'y  real 
danger)  to  the  more  horrible  certainty  of  the  close 
ties  which  would  be  established  between  him  and  the 
Fords,  the  place  they  would  have  a  right  to  in  his 
household,  the  gamekeeper  father,  the  homely  drudge 
of  a  woman,  who  would  be  brought  so  near  him.  All 
this  he  put  behind  his  back  now  with  disdain.  What 
he  had  done  he  had  done,  and  nothing  could  undo  it. 
He  raised  his  hand  unconsciously  as  he  hurried  across 
the  park,  waving  all  these  spectres  away.  He  had  ac- 
cepted them,  and  their  power  was  gone.  He  thought 
of  them  no  more. 

A  kind  of  exaltation  came  into  his  mind  as  he  went 
home.  To  have  done  it  after  all  was  much,  to  have 
got  out  of  the  region  of  conflict  and  doubt.  Strange 
to  think  that  he  had  been  wasting  his  strength  in 
futile  conflicts  only  this  morning ;  that  yesterday  he 
had  been  struggling  in  those  nets  of  society  which 
he  loathed,  and  had  almost  believed  of  himself  that  he 
never  would  have  done  this  thing,  which  now  it  was 
as  certain  he  must  have  done  as  if  it  had  been  planned 
amid  all  the  counsels  of  the  spheres.  And  who  should 
say  it  had  not  been  so  planned  ?  When  the  great 
crises  of  our  life  arrive,  we  are  seldom  unwilling  to 
recognize  that  there  is  something  providential  in  the 
way  they  come  about ;  or  at  least,  if  we  are  very  ad- 
vanced and  superior,  to  smile  upon  the  weaker  sweet 
imagination  which  seems  to  have  some  fanciful  justi- 
fication for  thinking  that  Heaven  itself  might  have 
taken  that  trouble.  For  how  can  there  be  a  greater 
thing  than  the  bringing  together  of  two  human  crea- 


BROUGHT   TO  BOOK.  223 

tures,  from  whom  a  greater  and  a  greater  life  may 
spring,  until  the  race  touches  again  the  spheres  ? 
Marriages,  the  simple  say,  are  made  in  heaven.  They 
are  fit  things  to  be  made  in  heaven :  not  the  marriages 
"  arranged  "  in  society,  with  so  much  blood  and  beauty 
on  the  one  side,  and  so  much  money  on  the  other,  or 
between  two  great  estates  which  would  naturally  come 
together,  or  for  any  other  horrible  devil's  reason,  not 
Heaven's  ;  but  between  two  genuine  human  creatures, 
man  and  maid,  between  the  primeval  Two,  the  pair 
on  wfiom  all  life  is  founded  and  all  society.  Roger 
was  not,  perhaps,  a  man  of  poetical  thought  in  gen- 
eral, but  the  mind  which  usually  thinks  in  prose  will 
sometimes  strike  a  higher  note  of  poetry  in  excep- 
tional elevation  and  excitement  than  the  more  poet- 
ically disposed.  Then  he  thought  of  the  fast  women, 
the  girls  like  Geraldine  and  Amy,  and  of  the  contrast 
between  the  noisy  racket  of  that  unlovely  life  and  the 
beautiful  tranquil  existence  of  the  true  woman,  work- 
ing all  day  under  a  humble,  quiet  roof,  walking  in  her 
sweetness  among  all  other  sweet  and  tender  influences 
in  the  soft  May  evening,  amid  the  dews  and  balmy 
odors  of  the  park.  How  different,  he  thought  with  a 
certain  glorying  in  his  own  apparent  unsuccess  (which 
he  did  not  believe,  would  not  believe,  was  real),  how 
still  more  different  would  have  been  the  reception  of 
his  suit  in  that  other  world,  the  great  world,  where  ho 
was  known  as  an  excellent  parti,  the  heir  to  a  good 
estate !  There  would  have  been  no  hesitation  about 
the  girl  he  had  chosen  ;  the  parents  would  have  ac- 
cepted him  with  open  arms.  Lily's  panic  was  sweet 
in  comparison,  —  how  sweet !  To  her  it  was  the  ob- 
stacle that  he  should  be  the  heir  of  Melcombe.  How 
different !  This  thought  carried  his  soul  away,  float- 
ing upon  waves  of  immeasurable  content. 


224  THE   SECOND  SOX. 

He  had  reached  the  house  before  he  was  aware,  going 
quickly  in  the  abstraction  of  his  mind.  It  stood  solid 
in  the  summer  dark,  a  big  shadow  softly  rounded  off 
by  the  surrounding  trees ;  the  great  cedar  on  the  lawn 
like  a  tower,  more  substantial  even  in  its  blackness  of 
shadow  than  the  human  house  with  its  flickers  of 
light  at  the  windows.  He  came  to  it  upon  the  garden 
side,  where  were  the  long  row  of  projecting  windows. 
In  Nina's,  which  formed  one  of  the  drawing-room 
bays,  there  was  a  light,  and  he  saw  her  little  face  ap- 
pear, suddenly  pressed  against  the  glass,  peering  out 
at  the  sound  of  his  footstep  on  the  gravel.  A  more 
subdued  light,  that  of  his  father's  shaded  lamp,  shone 
from  the  corresponding  window  of  the  library.  Did 
his  father  rise  too  at  the  sound  of  his  step,  or  was 
it  only  his  imagination  that  suggested  a  stir  within? 
He  had  passed  these  lights,  and  was  making  his  way 
round  to  the  door  which  he  could  see  was  open,  show- 
ing the  colored  lamp  in  the  hall  and  a  glow  of  varie- 
gated light  upon  the  black  oak  carvings,  when  he 
heard  himself  sharply  called  from  a  little  distance  be- 
yond. It  was  the  Squire's  voice.  Eoger  felt  in  a  mo- 
ment that  all  that  had  gone  before  was  as  child's  play, 
and  that  now  the  great  crisis  of  his  life  had  come. 
He  went  forward  slowly,  and  I  will  not  say  that  his 
heart  did  not  beat  louder.  He  was  a  man  fully  ma- 
tured, not  one  to  tremble  before  a  father ;  and  yet 
there  went  through  him  a  thrill  of  something  like 
alarm,  —  a  thrill  which  did  not  mean  fear,  nor  any 
disposition  to  yield  to  his  father  the  arbitration  of  his 
fate,  3ret  which  was  a  summoning  of  all  his  energies 
to  meet  a  danger  which  he  had  foreseen  without  ever 
expecting  it,  and  which  far  sooner  than  he  had  sup- 
posed was  to  settle  and  decide  the  future  tenor  of  his 
life. 


BROUGHT   TO  BOOK.  225 

"  Roger,  is  it  you  ?  I  might  have  known.  What 
do  you  mean,  bursting  in  at  the  windows  and  scar- 
ing poor  little  Nina?  Nobody  shall  do  that  in  my 
house." 

"Has  Nina  said  so?"  asked  Roger  sharply.  "I 
came  in  at  no  window,  sir.  When  you  called  me  I 
was  making  my  way  to  the  door." 

The  Squire  paused,  and  looked  at  his  son  as  a  bull 
might  look,  with  his  head  down  before  charging.  "  It 
does  n't  matter,"  he  said,  "  door  or  window.  Where 
have  you  been,  sir?  —  that's  the  question.  Only  a 
few  hours  at  home,  and  here  's  somebody  who  must 
receive  a  visit,  who  can't  be  put  off,  —  the  first  night ! 
Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Where  have  I  been  ?  Surely  I  am  not  a  child, 
sir,  to  be  questioned  in  that  way  "  — 

"  No,  you  're  not  a  child,  more  's  the  pity.  A  child 
can  do  no  harm  but  to  himself.  You  —  can  disgrace 
your  family  and  everybody  belonging  to  you.  Where 
have  you  been,  sir,  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  have  been,"  said  Roger,  with  a  strong  effort  at 
self-control,  "  in  the  park.  WThen  you  think  of  it, 
you  will  see  that  a  man  of  my  age  cannot  be  asked 
such  questions.  Let  the  night  pass,  father.  If  you 
have  anything  to  ask  that  I  can  answer,  let  it  be  to- 
morrow." 

"  It  shall  be  to-night !  "  cried  the  Squire,  with  foam 
flying  from  his  lips.  "  And  you  shall  answer  what 
questions  I  choose  to  ask,  or  else  I  will  know  the 
reason  why.  In  the  park  ?  I  know  where  you  have 
been,  you  poor  fool.  You  have  been  at  the  West 
Lodge !  " 

"  Well,  sir :  and  what  then  ? "  said  Roger,  the 
blood  coursing  back  upon  his  heart,  all  his  forces 


226  THE   SECOND  SON. 

rallying  to  meet  the  attack.  It  subdued  his  excite- 
ment "and  made  him  calm.  He  stood  firmly  looking 
in  his  father's  face,  which  he  could  scarcely  see,  ex- 
cept that  it  was  infuriated  and  red.  And  there  was  a 
moment  of  silence.  —  dead  silence,  —  into  which  the 
stirrings  of  the  night  outside  and  the  movements  of 
the  house  came  strangely. 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Mitford  was  speechless  with 
rage  and  consternation.  Then  he  turned  and  walked 
quickly  into  the  house,  waving  to  his  son  to  follow 
him.  "  We  can't  talk  here.  Come  into  my  room." 

The  library  was  a  large  room  lined  with  books,  a 
miscellaneous  collection,  abundant  but  not  valuable, 
in  dingy  old  bindings,  which  made  the  walls  dark. 
One  lamp,  and  that  a  shaded  one,  stood  in  a  corner 
on  the  table  where  Mr.  Mitford  read  his  newspapers. 
This  was  the  only  light  visible.  The  Squire  went  up 
to  it,  and  threw  himself  into  his  arm-chair.  Roger 
did  not  sit  down.  He  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the 
table,  which  was  in  the  light,  but  his  face  was  in 
shadow.  This  gave  him  a  slight  advantage  over  his 
father,  who  was  full  in  the  light. 

"  You  say  *  What  then?  '  "  said  Mr.  Mitford,  "  and 
you  say  it  mighty  coolly,  as  if  it  did  n't  matter.  Let 's 
understand  each  other  once  for  all.  It 's  some  time 
now  since  you  have  set  yourself  to  thwart  my  plans. 
I  was  ready  to  settle  everything  for  you,  to  make  it 
easy,  —  and  you  had  the  best  of  everything  waiting 
for  you  to  pick  up.  By  Jove,  you  were  too  well  off, — 
that 's  all  about  it.  Well,  what 's  come  between  you 
and  all  this  ?  Your  mind 's  changed,  and  your  ways. 
Once  you  were  all  straight,  doing  very  weD,  though 
you  were  always  a  stubborn  one.  Now  "  — 

"  I  am  still  a  stubborn  one,  I  fear,"  Roger  assented, 
with  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 


BROUGHT   TO  BOOK.  227 

"  None  of  your  smiling  !  "  cried  the  Squire.  "  It 's 
no  smiling  matter,  I  can  tell  you.  What 's  the  rea- 
son ?  Confound  you,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  angry  father, 
the  foam  flying  from  his  lips  again,  "  do  you  think  I 
don't  know  what  it  is  ?  A  dressed-up,  mincing  milli- 
ner's girl  —  a  doll  with  a  pretty  face  —  a  —  a  crea- 
ture !  I've  seen  her,  sir,  —  I've  seen  her.  Ford's 
daughter,  —  the  keeper !  That 's  what  takes  you 
every  night  from  home.  And  you  come  back  from 
low  company  like  that  to  your  sister's  —  and  look  me 
in  the  face  "  — 

"  I  hope,"  said  Eoger,  pale  and  trembling  with 
passion,  "  I  can  look  any  man  in  the  face.  And  as 
for  my  sistei's,  any  one  of  them,  if  they  were  half  as 
good  as  she  of  whom  you  speak  "  — 

The  Squire  was  purple :  it  was  not  much  wonder, 
perhaps.  And  he  knew  that  was  a  bad  thing  for  a 
man  of  a  full  habit,  like  himself,  and  with  one  big 
word  to  relieve  his  mind  he  forced  himself  into  a  sort 
of  calmness,  resuming  his  seat  from  which  he  had 
started.  Losing  one's  temper  does  nobody  any  good. 
He  puffed  forth  a  hot  blast  of  angry  breath,  which  re- 
lieved him,  and  then  he  assumed  what  was  intended 
for  a  polished  air  of  composure. 

"  Good  !  I  see  you  have  made  up  your  mind. 
May  I  ask  what  course  you  intend  to  adopt  in  respect 
to  this  paragon  ?  I  suppose  you  've  settled  that 
too?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Roger,  "  when  a  man  loves  a  woman, 
and  she  is  free  to  marry  him,  there  can  be  but  one 
course  to  adopt,  so  far  as  I  am  aware." 

"  Oh  !  so  that  is  it :  '  there  can  be  but  one  course  ' !  " 
repeated  the  Squire,  with  that  highly  offensive  attempt 
to  mimic  his  son's  tone  which  was  habitual  to  him. 


228  THE  SECOND  SON. 

Then  thundering,  "  You  mean  to  marry  the  baggage, 
sir,  and  bring  her  to  this  house,  to  your  mother's 
place !  " 

"  She  was  my  mother's  favorite ;  she  has  been 
trained  upon  my  mother's  plan,"  said  Roger,  with 
white  lips. 

"  Your  mother's  favorite  —  for  a  waiting-maid ! 
Trained  upon  your  mother's  plan  —  to  cut  out  aprons 
and  sew  them  !  Is  that  what  you  want  her  for  ?  But 
let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  girl  shall  never  sit  in  your 
mother's  place,  —  never,  if  there  was  not  a  woman 
but  herself  in  the  world ;  never,  if  —  What  is  the 
use  of  wasting  words  ?  If  you  mean  to  make  such  a 
disgraceful  match,  you  had  better  count  the  cost  first, 
which  is  —  Melcombe  in  the  first  place,  and  your  sup- 
posed position  here.  The  land  shall  go  to  your 
brother ;  I  withdraw  j*our  allowance.  Love  is  a  fine 
thing,  is  n't  it  ?  Go  and  live  upon  it,  and  see  how 
you  like  it  then." 

"  Father,"  gasped  Roger  ;  he  felt  it  necessary  to  con- 
trol his  own  passion,  and  caught  at  the  word  to  re- 
mind himself  of  a  bond  that  could  not  be  ignored. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  appealing  to  me.  You  think  I  have 
been  uttering  vain  threats  and  have  meant  nothing ; 
but  by  Jove,  you  shall  find  out  the  difference.  I  've 
not  been  a  pedant,"  cried  the  Squire,  "  nor  a  prude," 
—  they  were  the  first  words  that  occurred  to  him. 
"  I  've  paid  your  debts,  and  put  up  with  —  many 
things  no  father  approves  of." 

"  You  must  think,  sir,  that  you  are  speaking  to 
Stephen,  and  not  to  me." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir !  "  thundered  the  Squire. 
"  I  know  what  I  am  saying  and  who  I  am  speaking  to. 
Stephen  may  be  a  fool,  but  not  so  great  a  fool  as  you 


BROUGHT  TO  BOOK.  229 

are.  He  would  not  throw  away  his  living  and  his 
place  in  the  world  for  any  woman.  Look  here  !  either 
you  give  up  this  business  at  once,  this  very  night  (I  '11 
pack  the  whole  brood  away  to-morrow,  out  of  your 
road),  and  settle  down  and  marry  as  you  ought,  and 
do  your  duty  by  your  family,  or  —  good-by !  "  cried 
the  Squire,  angrily,  kissing  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  — 
"good-by!  Take  your  own  way;  it's  to  be  hoped 
you  '11  find  it  a  wise  one.  As  for  me,  I  've  nothing 
more  to  say." 

"  Father,"  exclaimed  Roger  again.  The  shock,  for 
it  was  a  shock,  calmed  him  once  more.  There  had 
been  no  very  cordial  relations  in  the  family,  perhaps, 
but  never  a  breach.  And  his  home  exercised  that 
charm  over  him  which  an  ancestral  home  does  over 
most  Englishmen.  The  disinheritance  did  not  strike 
him  as  anything  real,  but  the  severance  had  a  horri- 
ble sound  ;  it  daunted  him  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  I  will  listen  to  no  appeal,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  You  think  you  can  touch  my  heart  by  that  '  father  ' 
of  yours.  Pshaw !  you  're  not  a  baby ;  you  know 
what  you  're  about  as  well  as  I  do.  We  're  both  men, 
no  such  wonderful  difference.  I  '11  have  no  false  sen- 
timent. Do  what  I  require,  or  if  you  take  your  own 
way,  understand  that  Melcombe  will  never  be  yours. 
I  may  settle  some  trifle  on  you  for  charity,  but  Mel- 
combe  "  — 

"  In  that  case,  sir,"  said  Roger,  slowly  and  stiffly, 
"words  are  useless,  as  you  say.  I  can't  take  your 
way  in  what 's  life  or  death  to  me.  Melcombe  —  can 
—  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. It  is  yours  not  mine,  to  dispose  of.  And  as 
for  charity  "  —  His  hand  clenched  upon  the  table, 
showing  all  the  veins ;  but  his  face,  which  was  white 


230  THE   SECOND  SON. 

to  the  lips,  was  in  the  shadow,  out  of  which  his  voice 
came  tuneless  and  hard,  with  pauses  to  moisten  his 
throat.  It  stopped  at  last  from  that  cause,  his  mouth 
being  parched  with  agitation  and  passion,  on  the  word 
"  charity,"  which,  had  he  retained  the  power  of  ex- 
pression, would  have  been  full  of  scorn  :  but  he  had 
lost  the  power. 

The  door  opened  behind  them  at  this  crisis,  and 
Edmund  came  into  the  room.  Edmund  had  been  un- 
easy all  the  evening,  but  his  mind  went  no  further 
than  uneasiness.  He  feared  vaguely  a  quarrel  be- 
tween his  father  and  brother.  He  feared  that  Roger, 
in  his  excited  and  uncertain  state,  would  bear  no  in- 
terference, but  this  was  all.  He  came  into  the  room 
anxious,  but  scarcely  alarmed,  and  took  no  fright 
from  the  words  he  heard.  "  Charity,"  —  it  had  ended 
thus,  he  thought,  amicably,  on  some  mild  matter  of 
benevolence  on  which  father  and  son  were  agreeing. 
But  this  delusion  lasted  a  moment,  and  no  longer. 

"  Here,  Ned,"  cried  the  Squire,  "  you  're  just  in 
time.  Your  brother  thinks  more  of  your  interest  than 
his  own.  Your  name  goes  down  in  the  will  to-morrow 
in  the  place  of  his.  Shake  hands,  old  fellow  ;  it 's 
you  that  are  to  have  Melcombe.  You  are  a  bit  of  a 
milksop,  Ned,  but  never  mind.  Shake  hands  on  it, 
my  boy." 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  cried  Edmund,  hurrying 
forward  into  the  light.  But  Roger  did  not  wait  for 
the  explanation.  He  caught  his  brother's  hand  as  he 
passed  him,  and  wrung  it  in  his  own  ;  then  hurried  out 
of  the  room,  leaving  the  two  others,  the  one  at  the 
height  of  excitement,  the  other  disturbed  and  wonder- 
ing, looking  strangely  into  each  other's  eyes. 


XXI. 

SUBSTITUTION. 

EDMUND  and  his  father  stood  looking  at  each  other, 
as  Roger's  steps  died  away.  They  listened  with  a 
curious  unanimity,  though  the  one  was  at  the  height 
of  unreasoning  anger,  and  the  other  anxious  and 
alarmed,  —  as  people  listen  to  steps  that  are  going 
away  forever.  There  seemed  some  spell  in  the  sound. 
Mr.  Mitford  was  the  first  to  break  free  from  it.  He 
thi-ew  himself  down  in  his  chair,  making  it  creak  and 
swing.  "  Well !  "  he  cried,  "  there  's  heroics  !  And 
now  to  business.  You  were  surprised,  I  don't  doubt, 
at  what  I  said  just  now,  Ned.  You  thought  I  did  n't 
mean  it.  You  thought,  perhaps,  I  had  said  it  before. 
There  you  're  wrong.  If  I  said  it  before,  it  was  but 
a  threat,  a  crack  of  the  whip,  don't  you  know,  over 
his  head.  I  am  in  serious  earnest  now." 

"  About  what,  sir  ?  "  asked  Edmund.  "  Pardon  me 
if  I  don't  understand," 

"  You  mean  you  won't  understand,"  retorted  the 
Squire,  who  spoke  with  a  puff  of  angry  breath  be- 
tween each  phrase,  panting  with  anger.  "It  is  too 
late  for  that  sort  of  thing  now.  You  had  better  give 
me  your  attention  seriously,  without  any  quixotical 
nonsense.  I  don't  say  it  is  wrong  to  consider  your 
brother.  You  've  done  so  as  much  —  more  than  he 
or  any  one  had  a  right  to  expect ;  but  you  're  doing 
no  good,  and  that  is  a  sort  of  thing  that  can't  go  on 


232  THE  SECOND  SON. 

forever.  You  had  better  accept  the  position,  and 
think  a  little  of  yourself  now." 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?  You  would  not,  I  am  sure, 
do  anything  hasty.  Roger 's  not  a  prudent  fellow,  and 
he  has  a  hot  temper.  If  he  has  done  or  said  anything 
that  offends  you,  it  was  inadvertence,  or  carelessness, 
or"  — 

"  I  know  very  well  what  it  was,  without  any  of 
your  glosses.  If  you  mean  to  say  that  it  was  not 
with  any  intention  of  being  cut  out  of  my  will  in  con- 
sequence, I  grant  you  that.  Most  likely  he  does  not 
believe  I  shall  ever  be  aggravated  to  the  point  of  cut- 
ting him  out  of  my  will.  What  he  wants  is  his  own 
way  and  my  property  too.  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Mitford, 
with  a  snort  of  hot  breath,  "  that  is  what  he  intends,  — 
it 's  simple.  But  there  's  a  limit  to  that  as  to  every- 
thing else,  and  I  've  reached  that  limit.  I  've  been 
coming  to  it  for  some  time,  and  he 's  clenched  it  to- 
night. I  want  to  speak  of  yourself,  not  Roger.  So 
far  as  he 's  concerned,  there 's  not  another  word  to 
say." 

"  He  can't  have  done  anything  since  he  came  home 
• —  if  it 's  only  something  foolish  he  has  said  "  — 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Ned  !  There  's  not  to  be  an- 
other word  on  that  subject,  please !  "  with  fierce  polite- 
ness. Then  the  Squire  added  with  a  snarl,  "  He  's 
asked  Lily  Ford  to  marry  him,  —  or  means  to  do  so, 
—  and  tells  me  she  was  his  mother's  favorite,  and 
therefore  is  fit  to  be  put  in  his  mother's  place.  By 
Jove !  "  cried  Mr.  Mitford,  puffing  out  once  more 
from  his  nostrils  a  hot  blast,  "  and  the  fellow  thinks 
I  'm  to  stand  that !  It 's  all  quite  settled  ;  we  may 
take  it  quietly ;  there  's  nothing  more  to  say.  Now 
conies  your  turn,  Ned.  You  won't  disgrace  me  in  that 


SUBSTITUTION.  233 

sort  of  way,  I  know.  You  may  sink  into  a  corner  and 
do  nothing  at  all,  —  that  ?s  likely  enough,  —  but  you 
won't  disgrace  your  family.  Try  and  be  something 
more  than  negative,  now  you're  at  the  head  of  it. 
You  're  not  the  man  your  brother  is,  though,  thank 
Heaven,  you  're  not  the  fool  he  is,  either.  Why,  if 
you  put  your  best  foot  foremost  —  there  is  no  telling 
—  Lizzie  Travers  might  like  you  as  well  as  Roger. 
You  could  but  try." 

The  Squire  exhaled  a  part  of  his  excitement  in  a 
harsh  laugh.  It  sounded  coarse  and  unfeeling,  but  in 
reality  it  was  neither.  It  was  anger,  pain,  emotion, 
the  lower  elements  heightened  by  something  of  that 
irritation  of  natural  affection  which  makes  wrath  it- 
self more  wrathful.  Edmund  did  not  do  justice  to 
his  father.  He  was  horrified  and  revolted  by  the  sup- 
posed jest,  and  had  he  given  vent  to  his  feelings  he 
would  have  made  an  indignant  and  angry  reply ;  but 
the  thought  that  he  was  Roger's  sole  helper  restrained 
him.  He  must  neither  quarrel  with  his  father,  nor 
even  refuse  these  propositions,  however  horrible  they 
were  to  him,  for  Roger's  sake. 

"  It  would  be  very  painful  to  me,"  he  said  gravel/, 
"  to  be  put  in  my  brother's  place." 

"What,  with  Lizzie  Travers?"  cried  the  Squire, 
with  another  laugh.  "  Take  heart,  man.  Women, 
as  often  as  not,  prefer  domestic  fellows  like  you." 

Edmund  had  a  hard  struggle  with  himself.  He  had 
the  sensitiveness  of  a  man  whose  mind  was  touched 
with  the  preliminaries  of  love,  and  in  a  semi-rever- 
ential state  to  all  women  ;  and  to  hear  one  name  thus 
tossed  about  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear. 
But  there  was  a  great  deal  at  stake,  and  he  mastered 
himself. 


234  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  You  might  leave  me  your  heir,  sir,''  lie  said,  "  but 
you  could  not  make  me  the  head  of  the  family.  After 
you,  Roger  is  that,  though  he  had  not  a  penny.  I  am 
very  strong  on  primogeniture  so  far  as  that  goes." 

"  Primogeniture  is  all  humbug,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  If  it  were  not  that  those  Radical  fellows  are  so  hot 
against  it,  —  as  if  it  could  do  anything  to  them  !  —  I 
should  say  myself  it  was  a  mistake.  Let  the  father 
choose  the  son  that  suits  him  to  come  after  him.  That 's 
what  I  say,  and  that 's  my  case.  As  for  the  head  of 
the  family,  don't  you  trouble  your  mind,  Ned.  The 
head  of  the  family  is  the  one  who  has  the  money. 
You  may  take  my  word  for  that." 

"  And  yet,  sir,"  said  Edmund  quietly,  "  if  I  were 
owner  of  Melcombe  to-morrow,  and  had  everything 
you  could  give  me,  I  should  still  be  obliged  to  bear 
the  Mitford  arms  with  a  difference,  to  show  I  was  not 
the  first  in  descent." 

This  statement  made  the  Squire  turn  pale.  It  will 
probably  not  impress  the  reader  very  profoundly,  un- 
less, indeed,  he  belongs  to  an  old  county  family,  and 
knows  what  such  a  misfortune  is.  For  a  moment  it 
£bok  away  Mr.  Mitford's  breath.  He  had  not  thought 
of  that.  Roger  landless,  with  full  right  to  the  ancient 
coat ;  and  Edmund  rich  and  the  proprietor  of  every- 
thing, yet  bearing  a  mark  of  cadency,  his  younger 
son's  difference  !  That  was  a  bitter  pill.  He  had  not 
thought  of  it,  and  therefore  received  the  blow  full  on 
his  breast.  The  first  effect  it  had  was  to  make  him 
more  and  more  angry  with  his  eldest  son. 

"  Confound  the  fellow !  "  he  cried,  with  an  earnest- 
ness of  objurgation  which  was  more  than  wrath.  Roger 
was  not  only  making  his  father  angry,  but  giving  him 
occasion  for  serious  thought.  A  mark  of  cadency ! 


SUBSTITUTION.  235 

It  was  an  idea  for  which  the  Squire  was  not  pre- 
pared. 

"  And  if  what  you  foresee  should  happen,"  said  Ed- 
mund, with  grave  persistency,  following  out  his  line 
of  argument  without  raising  his  eyes,  "  if  we  should 
marry  and  leave  children  behind  us,  there  would  be 
the  Mitfords  who  are  the  elder  branch  poor,  and  the 
Mitfords  who  are  "  — 

"  Stop  that !  "  cried  the  Squire ;  "  if  it  is  so,  it 
can't  be  helped.  Do  you  think  I  'm  going  to  let  my- 
self be  balked  and  all  my  plans  frustrated  by  a  trifle 
like  that?  Let  them  be  the  elder  branch,  and 
much  good  may  it  do  them  !  —  the  children  of  Lily 
Ford,  my  gamekeeper's  grandsons !  By  Jove  !  "  Mr. 
Mitford  felt  himself  grow  purple  again,  and  saw 
sparks  flying  before  his  eyes  :  and  he  stopped,  for  he 
knew  it  was  not  good  for  him  to  let  excitement  go  so 
far.  To  decide  which  of  his  sons  should  succeed  him 
was  one  thing ;  to  open  the  way  for  him  to  receive  his 
inheritance  at  once  was  very  different.  He  had  not 
the  least  intention  of  doing  that.  "  It 's  quite 
enough,"  he  said,  "  for  this  time  that  you  understanc^ 
and  accept  my  settlement.  I  have  had  enough  of  it 
for  one  night.  To-morrow  we  '11  have  Pouncefort  over 
and  settle  everything.  You  can  leave  me  now.  Why 
the  deuce  did  you  let  the  fellow  come  here  ?  "  he  ex- 
claimed, with  a  sudden  outburst,  as  Edmund  turned 
to  leave  the  room. 

"  You  may  ask  that,  sir.  It  is  my  fault.  I  told 
him  I  was  coming,  which  I  had  no  need  to  do." 

"  Need !  I  would  as  soon  have  told  him  to  hang 
himself.  And  what  did  you  want  here  ?  Could  n't 
you  have  stayed  in  town  and  kept  him  straight? 
What  is  the  good  of  you,  if  you  can't  do  a  thing  like 


23(3  THE  SECOND  SOX. 

that?"  The  foam  began  to  fly  from  the  Squire's 
mouth  as  the  gust  of  irritation  rose.  "  A  younger 
brother,  sir,  should  have  some  feeling  for  the  family. 
He  ought  to  be  able  to  sacrifice  a  little  to  keep  his 
brother  straight.  Good  Lord,  what  is  the  use  of  him 
if  it  is  n't  that  ?  And  here  you  come  vaporing  to  the 
country  for  no  reason,  and  tell  him  you  are  coming ! 
Tell  him !  For  goodness'  sake,  why  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  act  of  a  fool,"  said  Edmund,  with 
bowed  head. 

"  It  was  worse,"  cried  the  Squire.  "  It  was  the  act 
of  Jacob,  he  that  was  the  supplanter,  don't  you  know, 
that  took  his  brother  by  the  heel  —  it 's  all  in  the 
Bible.  It 's  your  fault,  and  it  will  be  to  your  advan- 
tage :  that 's  the  way  of  the  world.  Oh,  I  don't  sup- 
pose you  thought  of  that,  —  you  're  not  clever  enough  ; 
but  I  should,  in  your  position.  I  should  have  seen 
what  people  would  say.  You  '11  get  the  land  and  the 
lady,  while  Roger,  my  poor  Roger  "  —  And  here  the 
Squire  broke  down.  Who  could  doubt  that  to  cast 
off  his  eldest  son  was  a  misery  even  to  this  high- 
tempered  and  imperious  man?  Roger  was  lost  to 
him,  —  there  was  no  going  back  upon  the  decision  ; 
but  still  a  man  might  rage  at  the  things  and  chances 
which  had  turned  his  son  aside  from  the  right  way. 

"Father,  for  God's  sake,  let  things  be  as  they 
are ! "  cried  Edmund.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  would  take 
Roger's  inheritance  from  him?  When  you  think  of 
it  you  will  relent ;  and  I,  for  my  part,  could  only 
accept  as  his  trustee,  as  his  representative,  to  frighten 
him,  since  you  think  proper  to  do  so,  but  to  re- 
store "  — 

The  Squire  looked  up,  suddenly  brought  to  himself 
by  this  unguarded  speech.  His  momentary  emotion 


SUBSTITUTION.  287 

had  blown  off,  and  the  watchfulness  of  the  man  de- 
termined to  have  his  own  way,  and  to  permit  no  one 
to  interfere,  started  up  in  full  force.  "  Oh !  "  he  said, 
"  so  that 's  it.  Your  compliance  seemed  a  little  too 
gracious.  You're  not  so  ready  to  humor  me  in  a 
usual  way.  So  that 's  it !  I  might  have  known  there 
was  something  underhand." 

Anger  flamed  up  on  Edmund's  cheek ;  but  he  re- 
strained himself  once  more.  If  he  let  himself  go 
and  joined  Roger  in  his  banishment,  who  would  there 
be  to  make  any  stand  for  the  disinherited  ?  Stephen  ? 
He  did  not  trust  Stephen.  He  said  gravely,  "  I  do 
not  suppose  you  mean,  in  this  respect  at  least,  what 
you  say.  I  have  never,  that  I  know  of,  done  anything 
underhand." 

"  Well,  perhaps  that  was  strong,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  I  don't  know  that  you  have,  Ned ;  but  I  '11  have 
nothing  of  the  kind  here.  I  hope  Pouncefort  knows 
his  business.  If  you  're  to  be  my  heir,  you  shall  be 
so,  not  merely  a  screen  for  Roger.  Go  away  now. 
I  'm  excited,  which,  if  I  had  any  sense,  I  should  n't 
be.  One  lets  one's  self  get  excited  over  one's  chil- 
dren, who  don't  care  two  straws  what  happens  to  one. 
That  is  the  truth.  You  are  interested  about  your 
brother :  but  as  for  me,  who  have  brought  you  up  and 
cared  for  you  all  your  life  "  — 

The  Squire's  voice  took  a  pathetic  tone.  He  really 
felt  a  little  emotion,  and  he  was  not  in  the  way  of  using 
histrionic  methods :  but  yet  everybody  does  this  at 
one  time  or  another,  and  he  was  not  unwilling  to  make 
his  son  believe  that  he  felt  it  a  great  deal. 

And  Edmund  was  aware  of  both  phases.  He  knew 
that  his  father  was  not  without  heart.  He  was  even 
sorry  for  him  in  the  present  complication  of  affairs : 


238  THE  SECOND  SON. 

but  it  went  against  him  to  fall  into  the  pathos  which 
was  suggested,  and  make  any  pretty  speech  about  Mr. 
Mitford's  devotion  to  his  children  and  the  manner  in 
which  they  repaid  it.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
silent,  making  no  response,  feeling  to  himself  like  an 
impersonation  of  the  undutiful  and  ungrateful.  What 
could  he  say?  Nothing  that  would  not  be  at  least 
partially  fictitious,  as  had  been  the  appeal. 

"  I  think  I  will  take  myself  off,  sir,"  he  said,  "  as 
you  tell  me.  To-morrow  we  shall  all  know  better, 
perhaps,  what  we  are  about.  I  am  very  much  taken 
by  surprise.  I  never  for  a  moment  supposed  that,  in 
earnest,  you  meant  to  disinherit  your  eldest  son." 

"  You  thought  I  meant  it  in  jest,  then  ?  "  said  the 
Squire.  "  It 's  a  nice  thing  to  joke  about,  is  n't  it,  a 
man's  eldest  son  ?  Well,  go.  I  have  had  about  enough 
of  this  confounded  business  for  one  night." 

He  felt  that  his  effort  had  failed,  and  he  was 
vexed  to  think  that  his  voice  had  trembled,  and  that 
he  had  really  been  touched  by  his  own  fatherly  devo- 
tion, and  in  vain  ;  but  that  soon  went  out  of  his  head 
when  his  son  had  left  him,  and  he  sat  alone  survey- 
ing all  the  circumstances  at  his  leisure  in  the  quiet 
which  solitude  gives.  He  leaned  his  head  upon  his 
hands,  and  stared  at  the  light,  which  came  with 
so  much  additional  force  from  under  the  shade  of 
the  lamp.  He  was  not  a  happy  father,  it  was  true. 
His  children  had  gone  against  him,  —  Roger  vio- 
lently, Edmund  with  a  silent  disapproval  which  was 
very  trying  to  bear,  Stephen  with  the  careless  inso- 
lence of  a  young  man  who  knows  the  world  much 
better  than  his  father  does.  Even  the  girls  paid  no 
attention  to  his  wishes.  The  elder  ones  were  fast 
young  women  about  town,  which  was  a  thing  he  de- 


SUBSTITUTION.  239 

tested  ;  and  Nina  was  a  little  gossip,  no  better  than  a 
waiting-maid  at  home.  These  things  all  came  to  the 
Squire's  mind  in  this  moment  which  he  passed  alone. 
He  had  done  a  great  deal  for  them  all,  especially  for 
the  boys,  and  this  was  how  they  repaid  him.  He  pro- 
tested in  his  own  mind  against  it  all,  —  against  their 
indifference,  their  carelessness,  their  superiority  to  his 
opinion.  That  was  what  a  man  got  for  taking  a  little 
trouble,  for  trying  to  make  a  home  for  his  family,  for 
giving  up  all  pleasure  outside  of  his  own  house.  It 
was  rather  a  fine,  disinterested,  noble-minded  picture 
he  made  of  himself.  It  looked  very  well,  he  thought 
unconsciously.  He  might  have  married  again ;  he 
might  have  spent  his  time  at  race  meetings,  or  gone 
into  society,  or  amused  himself  in  a  great  many  ways ; 
but  instead  he  had  lived  at  home,  and  brought  up  his 
children,  and  devoted  himself  to  them.  It  was  a  fine 
thing  to  have  done.  He  had  been  comparatively 
young  when  their  mother  died,  and  she,  poor  thing, 
had  gone  early.  But  he  had  never  given  her  a  suc- 
cessor, as  he  might  have  done ;  he  had  never  aban- 
doned her  children  :  and  this  was  how  they  rewarded 
him,  —  to  propose  to  put  Lily  Ford  in  their  mother's 
place ;  to  pretend  to  accept  his  favor  in  order  to  give 
it  back  to  Roger,  whom  it  was  his  intention  to  disin- 
herit ;  to  go  against  him,  cross  him,  show  how  little 
they  cared  for  him  in  every  way ! 

Mr.  Mitford  was  not  softened  by  his  reflections; 
after  that  touch  of  pathos  and  admiring  self-pity,  he 
worked  himself  up  into  anger  again.  They  might 
think  to  get  the  better  of  him,  but  they  should  not. 
They  were  all  in  his  power,  whatever  they  might 
think.  He  was  not  bound  to  give  them  a  farthing, 
any  one  of  them.  He  might  marry  again,  for  that 


240  THE   SECOND  SON. 

matter,  and  have  heirs  who  would  be  perfectly  docile, 
who  would  never  set  up  their  will  against  his.  By 
Jove !  and  that  was  what  he  would  do,  if  they  did 
not  mind.  Who  could  say  that  even  Lizzie  Travers 
herself  might  not  think  a  man  of  sixty-five,  hale  and 
hearty,  a  man  who  knew  the  world,  as  good  as  any 
one  of  the  young  fellows  that  did  not  know  a  fine 
woman  when  they  saw  her?  She  was  not  in  her 
first  youth,  after  all,  —  not  what  you  could  call  a  girl. 
She  was  twenty-five.  The  Squire  said  to  himself  that 
he  might  do  a  great  deal  worse,  and  that  she  might  do 
a  great  deal  worse.  This  gleamed  across  his  mind  for 
a  moment  with  a  triumphant  sense  of  the  universal 
discomfiture  which  he  might  thus  create  all  around. 
But,  to  do  him  justice,  it  was  not  such  a  suggestion 
as  found  natural  root  in  his  mind ;  and  presently  he 
returned  to  the  practical  question.  To  disinherit 
Roger,  yet  leave  the  next  heir  free  to  reinstate  him, 
was,  of  course,  out  of  the  question.  The  Squire  drew 
his  blotting-book  towards  him,  and  began  to  write 
out  his  instructions  to  Pouncefort.  He  was  not  at 
any  time  a  bad  man  of  business,  and  the  excitement 
in  his  mind  seemed  to  clear  every  faculty.  He  who 
had  prided  himself  so  on  his  freedom  from  all  bonds 
of  entail  or  other  restrictions  upon  his  testamentary 
rights  began,  with  a  grim  smile  upon  his  face,  to  in- 
vent restrictions  for  his  successor.  He  tore  up  several 
copies  of  the  document  before  he  satisfied  himself  at 
last ;  and  as  he  went  on,  getting  more  and  more  de- 
termined that  his  son  should  have  no  will  in  the 
matter,  the  Squire  finally  decided  upon  conditions  by 
which  Edmund  was  to  be  tied  up  harder  than  any 
tenant  for  life  had  ever  been  before  him,  with  the 
most  minute  stipulations  as  to  who  was  to  succeed 


SUBSTITUTION.  241 

him,  —  his  own  children  first,  then  Stephen  and 
his  children,  then  the  girls,  —  not  a  loophole  left 
for  Roger,  nor  for  any  arrangement  with  Roger.  The 
Squire  perhaps  saw  the  humor  of  this,  when  he  read 
the  paper  over  and  shut  it  into  his  drawer  before 
going  to  bed ;  for  there  was  a  smile  upon  his  face.  Nev- 
ertheless, he  breathed  out  a  long  breath  as  he  lighted 
his  candle,  and  said  to  himself,  "  He  '11  never  be  such 
a  confounded  fool,"  as  he  went  up-stairs  to  his  own 
room  through  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  house. 


XXII. 

A   MIDNIGHT    TALK. 

THE  house,  however,  was  not  so  still  as  Mr.  Mitford 
supposed.  It  contained  at  least  one  room  in  which  an 
exciting  act  of  the  same  family  drama  was  being  car- 
ried on.  The  brothers  had  not  met  immediately  after 
Edmund  had  left  his  father :  for  a  few  hours  they  had 
been  alone,  following  each  the  thread  of  his  own  ex- 
cited and  troublous  thoughts.  Roger  had  gone  out  to 
calm  the  fever  of  his  mind  in  the  coolness  and  dark- 
ness of  the  night.  Edmund,  hastening  out  of  his 
father's  presence  after  his  dismissal,  had  sunk  into  a 
chair  in  the  hall,  where  all  was  vacant,  the  night  air 
breathing  in  through  the  open  door,  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  waving  faintly,  the  leaves  rustling.  He  had 
thrown  himself  down  there  in  the  dark,  where  no  oue 
could  see  him,  to  escape  from  the  necessity  of  doing 
or  saying  anything.  As  he  sat  there  Nina's  little 
white  figure  came  out  from  the  drawing-room,  peered 
about  with  anxious  curiosity,  then  vanished  up-stairs ; 
and  Larkins  appeared,  with  a  footman  after  him,  to 
shut  up  for  the  night.  Edmund  did  not  move  while 
they  passed  from  one  room  to  another,  closing  the 
windows,  letting  down  the  bolts  and  bars.  The  jar 
of  these  noises  gave  a  kind  of  unwilling  accompani- 
ment to  his  troubled  mind.  Then  a  quick  step, 
unsteady  with  passion  and  excitement,  approached 
rapidly  and  rang  upon  the  pavement.  "  Is  it  you, 


A   MIDNIGHT  TALK.  243 

Roger  ?  "  his  brother  said,  rising  out  of  the  shadows. 
Roger  was  in  no  mood  to  talk ;  he  waved  his  hand  as 
if  to  put  all  interruption  away,  and  hastened  to  his 
room  with  an  evident  disinclination  for  any  further 
intercourse.  But  an  hour  or  two  later,  when  all  was 
still,  Edmund,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the  mean  time 
in  the  billiard-room,  which  was  the  one  room  of  the 
house  left  alone  by  Larkins,  always  a  refuge  for  the 
young  men,  —  their  sulking  -  room  when  they  were 
indisposed  for  family  society,  —  heard  the  door  sud- 
denly open  and  his  brother  come  in.  The  only  light 
in  the  room  was  from  the  lamp  suspended  over  the 
billiard-table,  and  throwing  a  vivid  glow  upon  the 
green  cloth.  The  large  bow-window  at  the  end  let 
in  a  prospect  of  pale  sky  and  waving  branches.  The 
room  was  in  an  angle  separated  from  the  rest  of  the 
house.  Roger  came  in  like  a  ghost,  scarcely  seen,  and 
threw  himself  upon  a  chair  near  the  one  which  Ed- 
mund had  himself  taken ;  and  there  they  sat  for 
some  time,  stretching  out  their  long  limbs,  extend- 
ing, as  it  were,  their  minds,  racked  with  distracting 
thoughts,  with  nothing  to  say  to  each  other,  and  yet 
so  much ;  communicating  a  mutual  malaise,  misery, 
difficulty,  without  a  word  said.  They  had  a  degree 
of  family  likeness  which  made  this  mute  meeting  all 
the  more  pathetic.  They  were  antagonists  in  inter- 
ests, according  to  any  vulgar  estimate  of  the  case. 
The  younger  brother  disapproved  profoundly,  miser- 
ably, of  what  the  elder  had  done.  He  felt  the  inap- 
propriateness  of  it,  the  folly  of  it,  to  the  bottom  of 
his  heart ;  and  yet  in  this  troubled  chaos,  where  all 
landmarks  were  disappearing  and  every  established 
law  being  abrogated,  he  was  cne  with  Roger,  smart- 
ing with  him  under  the  wounds  given  by  his  father's 


244  THE  SECOND  SON. 

rage,  and  even  moved  (though  he  was  so  much  against 
it)  by  a  sort  of  instinctive  sympathy  with  that  fatal 
infatuation  of  foolish  love. 

They  began  to  talk  at  last  in  monosyllables,  which 
dropped  now  and  then  into  the  silence  with  a  ques- 
tion and  answer  half  expressed.  "All  settled,  then?" 
—  "  Nothing  to  be  done  ?  "  —  "  All  "  —  "  Nothing." 
Then  another  long  pause.  By  degrees  a  few  more 
words  came  to  Edmund's  lips  and  a  longer  reply  from 
Roger's ;  then,  the  ice  once  fully  broken,  the  brothers 
settled  into  talk. 

"Don't  spoil  your  own  life  for  me,  Ned,"  said 
Roger  ;  "  the  die  is  cast  for  me.  And  in  every  way 
it  is  better,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  I  don't 
say  there  is  not  reason  in  it,  from  his  point  of  view. 
I  've  never  been  blind  to  that  side  of  the  question. 
I  know  that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  reconcile  every- 
thing —  the  father  and  mother  "  — 

"  You  see  that,"  exclaimed  Edmund,  "  and  yet  it 
makes  no  difference." 

"  I  have  always  seen  it,"  said  Roger,  almost  fiercely  : 
"  you  know  I  have.  I  see  everything.  No !  it  makes 
no  difference,  —  rather  the  reverse." 

"  It  pushes  you  on  ?  " 

"  It  pushes  me  on.  Ned,"  he  added,  leaning  for- 
ward, "  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  caught  in  the 
tide  like  this.  Every  disadvantage  pushes  me  on :  be- 
cause it  is  not  what  I  may  have  dreamed  —  because, 
God  help  us !  there  may  be,  even  afterwards,  things 
to  overcome  "  — 

"  Roger,  for  God's  sake  " 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  he  said,  holding  up  his  hand. 
"  I  '11  quarrel  with  you,  if  you  do,  —  though,  Ned,  old 
fellow,  Heaven  knows  I  trust  you  and  hold  you  closer 


A   MIDNIGHT  TALK.  245 

than  any  other  man  in  the  world.  Only  don't  touch 
that  subject.  Yes,"  he  went  on  dreamily,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  again,  "  I  don't  disguise  it  from  my- 
self: there  may  be  things  to  overcome.  We  have 
lived  in  very  different  spheres,  we  have  different  ways 
of  thinking,  and  all  the  associations  and  habits  —  I 
scorn  myself  for  thinking  of  them  at  all,  but  I  over- 
look nothing,  I  am  as  cool  and  cold  as  any  calculating 
machine"  — 

"  And  yet  you  sacrifice  everything,  you  throw  away 
everything." 

"  Hush ! "  said  Roger  again,  "  not  a  word.  What 
do  I  sacrifice,  —  the  chance  of  marrying  a  woman  like 
my  sisters?  And  suppose  that  there  are  differences 
between  her  and  me,  —  what  are  they  ?  Convention- 
alities on  my  side,  things  that  mean  nothing,  man- 
nerisms to  which  we  choose  to  attribute  an  impor- 
tance ;  to  sit  down  in  a  certain  way,  to  speak  in  a 
certain  tone,  to  observe  certain  ceremonies.  What  is 
all  that  ?  Who  would  put  these  nothings  in  compari- 
son with  a  pure  nature,  —  a  pure,  sweet  nature  and  a 
good  heart  ?  " 

To  this  Edmund  made  no  reply.  A  self-pleading 
so  pitiful  wanted  none.  The  depths  out  of  which 
Roger  spoke,  a  happy  lover,  feeling  the  world  well 
lost  for  the  sake  of  the  woman  he  loved,  were  too 
dark  and  tragic  to  be  fathomed  by  any  sympathizer, 
even  a  brother.  And  perhaps  when  Edmund  did 
speak  it  was  still  more  dangerous  ground  upon  which 
he  trod.  "  Are  you  sure  "  —  he  said,  then  paused, 
feeling  the  insecurity  of  the  soil. 

"  Am  I  sure  —  of  what  ?  That  there  is  no  further 
question  as  to  what  I  have  done  and  mean  to  do? 
Yes,  quite  sure." 


246  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  That  was  not  what  I  meant  to  ask  —  and  you 
may  be  offended  by  my  question ;  but  it  is  serious 
enough  to  risk  your  anger  for.  Are  you  sure  that 
she  —  loves  you,  Roger,  —  you  who  are  giving  up  so 
much  for  her  ?  " 

Roger  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  when  he  did  so 
did  it  in  haste,  turning  quickly  upon  his  brother,  as  if 
he  had  not  allowed  a  minute  to  elapse  before  giving 
him  his  answer.  "  Would  you  like  her  to  have 
thrown  herself  at  my  head,  clutched  at  me  as  a  good 
parti,  not  to  be  let  slip  ?  That 's  what  she  would 
have  done  if  she  had  been  a  girl  in  society;  but,  for- 
tunately for  me,  she  is  not  that." 

"  Forget  the  girls  in  society,"  said  Edmund ;  "  they 
are  not  what  you  choose  to  think  them,  or  at  least  I 
don't  believe  it.  But,  Roger,  there  's  no  question  so 
important  to  you  as  this.  Think  how  many  induce- 
ments there  are  for  her  besides  love.  I  will  say  noth- 
ing else,  —  I  will  allow  that  everything  has  gone  too 
far  to  be  altered, — but  only  this:  are  you  sure  that 
she  shares  your  feelings  ?  I  don't  want  to  bother  you ; 
you  know  that." 

"  Am  I  so  disagreeable  ?  "  demanded  Roger,  with  a 
laugh  ;  "  beside  all  the  people  she  is  likely  to  see,  am 
I  so  little  worth  considering?  You  pay  me  a  poor 
compliment,  Ned.  But  of  this  I  'm  sure :  if  it  is  so, 
she  '11  have  nothing  to  say  to  me.  You  can  comfort 
yourself  with  that  thought." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Edmund,  hesitating  ;  "  but  if 
so,  she  will  have  great  strength  of  mind.  Roger,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  make  sure.  She  has  everything  to 
gain,  and  you  have  everything  to  lose  "  — 

"  That 's  enough !  "  Roger  rose  impatiently,  and 
held  out  his  hand  to  his  brother.  "  You  're  a  Job's 


A    MIDNIGHT  TALK.  247 

comforter,  Ned !  I  don't  doubt  you  mean  very  well, 
but  this  is  not  the  way  to  encourage  a  man  when  he 's 
—  when  he  's  at  a  difficult  point  in  life.  Good-night, 
old  fellow  !  I  know  you  wish  me  well.  Don't  spoil 
your  own  chances  for  me,  that 's  all." 

"  Good-night !  "  Edmund  said  ;  and  he  sat  still  in 
the  silent  room  after  his  brother  had  left  him,  think- 
ing over  this  new  danger,  —  that  Roger  might  give 
up  everything  he  had  in  the  world  for  the  sake  of  a 
girl  to  whom  he  was  merely  the  means  of  rising,  a 
fine  match,  a  gentleman  elevating  her  out  of  her  own 
small  sphere.  Love !  how  could  it  be  love  ?  What 
did  she  know  of  him  to  make  love  possible?  It  might 
even  be  that  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  expect  from  such 
a  girl  indifference  to  the  advantages  which  Roger 
could  offer  her :  she  would  be  flattered,  she  would  be 
dazzled,  she  would  see  herself  in  a  moment  placed 
high  above  all  her  equals.  Neither  she  nor  her  par- 
ents would  believe  in  Roger's  disinheritance ;  and  he, 
with  this  fatal  passion  in  him,  this  fate  which  he  had 
not  been  able  to  resist,  would  barter  away  his  heart 
and  his  life  —  for  what?  —  for  the  privilege  of  mak- 
ing Lily  Ford  a  lady  ;  not  to  win  love  and  all  its  com- 
pensations, but  to  serve  as  a  stepping-stone  to  the 
ambition  of  an  artificially  trained  girl.  The  tragedy 
deepened  as  he  thought  it  all  over,  sitting  alone,  feel- 
ing the  chill  of  the  night  steal  upon  him  in  the  silent 
house.  Oh,  what  a  mystery  is  life,  with  all  its  mis- 
takes and  tragic  blunderings  !  What  fatal  darkness 
all  about  us,  until  all  illumination  is  too  late !  It  is 
the  spectator,  people  say,  who  sees  the  game,  not  those 
whose  whole  fortune  is  staked  upon  it.  But  in  this 
case  it  was  not  even  so  ;  the  gamester,  who  had  put 
his  all  upon  the  touch  to  win  or  to  lose,  saw  too,  — 


248  THE   SECOND  SON. 

was  aware  of  the  ruin  that  might  be  before  him,  the 
wasted  sacrifice,  the  spoiled  life,  —  and  yet  would 
neither  pause  nor  think.  Perhaps  it  is  the  tender- 
hearted looker-on,  in  such  circumstances,  who  has  the 
worst  of  it.  He  has  none  of  the  compensations. 
Even  the  excitement  which  is  sometimes  so  tragic  is 
sometimes  also  rapturous  for  the  chief  actor  :  but  the 
sympathizer  can  never  get  its  realities  out  of  his  eyes ; 
they  overshadow  everything,  even  the  hope,  which 
might  be  a  just  one,  that,  after  all  was  said,  the  soul 
of  goodness  would  vindicate  itself  even  amid  things 
evil.  For  Roger  there  was  still  the  chance  that  joy 
might  be  the  outcome  ;  at  all  events,  there  was  no 
happiness  for  him  except  in  this  way.  But  Edmund 
saw  the  evil  and  not  the  good,  nor  any  good,  however 
things  might  turn. 


XXIII. 

GOING   AWAY. 

WHEN  Roger  woke  next  morning,  and  opened  his 
eyes  in  the  familiar  room,  and  saw  the  peaceful  sun- 
shine streaming  in  through  that  familiar  window,  as 
he  had  done  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  it  was  not 
for  some  minutes  that  he  realized  to  himself  all  that 
had  happened,  —  all  the  difference  there  was  between 
this  awakening  and  that  of  any  other  day.  It  flashed 
upon  him  suddenly  after  a  moment  of  wonder  and 
trouble,  —  a  moment  in  which  care  confronted  him, 
awake  before  him,  but  with  the  mists  of  morning  over 
its  face.  What  was  it  that  had  happened  ?  Then 
recollection  came  like  a  flood.  He  had  declared  him- 
self to  Lily,  his  love-tale  was  told,  he  was  hers  what- 
ever might  happen.  All  doubt  or  question  was  over 
so  far  as  that  was  concerned.  A  gleam  of  troubled 
sunshine  passed  over  his  memory,  a  vision  of  her, 
timid,  shrinking,  with  that  frightened  cry,  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Roger!  "  —  nothing  more  responsive  ;  but  what  could 
that  be  but  her  modest  way,  her  shy  panic  at  the  pas- 
sion in  him,  her  unselfish  fears  for  her  father?  It 
could  be  nothing  more. 

Then  out  of  this  sunshine,  out  of  this  transporting 
certainty,  his  mind  plunged  into  the  darkness  again. 
He  saw  the  dim  library,  the  shaded  lamp,  his  father, 
furious,  opposite  to  him,  calling  for  the  renunciation 
of  all  his  hopes.  He  raised  himself  slowly  from  his 


250  THE   SECOND  SON. 

bed,  and  looked  round  him.  All  was  so  familiar  and 
so  dear ;  it  was  home.  There  cannot  be  two  homes 
in  this  world  :  he  had  grown  up  here,  he  knew  every 
corner  of  it,  and  there  was  not  a  nook,  out  of  doors  or 
in,  that  had  not  some  association  for  Roger.  As  in  a 
vision  he  suddenly  saw  his  mother  standing  just  with- 
in the  door,  shading  the  candle  with  her  hand  so  that 
the  light  should  not  fall  on  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to 
see  her,  though  it  was  so  .long  since  she  had  stood 
there  :  fifteen  years  or  more :  and  all  this  time  he  had 
lived  here,  with  short  absences ;  coming  back  always 
to  the  same  place,  always  the  chief  person  in  the  house 
next  to  his  father,  knowing  that  all  was  his  whatever 
should  happen.  And  now  it  was  his  no  longer.  To- 
day was  to  be  the  last  he  should  spend  under  the  pa- 
ternal roof ;  to-day  was  the  last  day  on  which  he  could 
call  Melcombe  his  home :  and  up  to  this  time  there 
had  never  been  any  doubt  that  he  would  be  master  of 
all.  It  was  not  a  thing  that  had  ever  been  taken  into 
discussion  or  questioned.  He  was  his  father's  eldest 
son,  the  head  of  the  family  after  him.  What  could 
happen  but  that  Roger  should  succeed  his  father? 
He  had  no  more  wished  for  this  as  an  advantage  over 
his  brothers  than  he  had  wished  for  his  father's  death 
in  order  that  he  might  succeed.  There  was  no  reason- 
ing in  it,  no  personal  thought.  It  was  the  course  of 
nature,  taken  for  granted  as  much  as  we  take  it  for 
granted  that  to-morrow's  sun  will  shine. 

Now  the  course  of  nature  was  stopped,  and  every- 
thing that  had  been  sure  to  be  was  turned  aside  and 
would  be  no  more.  Bewilderment  was  the  chief  feel- 
ing in  Roger's  mind ;  not  pain  so  much  as  wonder,  and 
the  difficulty  of  accepting  what  was  incredible,  —  a 
state  not  of  excitement,  still  less  of  struggle,  but  of  a 


GOING  AWAY.  251 

certain  dim  consternation,  incapacity  to  understand 
or  realize  what  nevertheless  he  knew  to  be  true.  He 
knew  it  so  well  to  be  true  and  irresistible  that,  as  he 
dressed,  he  arranged  in  his  mind  how  his  few  private 
possessions  were  to  be  disposed  of.  Some  of  them  he 
would  no  longer  have  any  use  for,  —  his  hunters,  his 
dog-cart,  the  many  things  which  somehow  had  come 
to  be  his,  without  either  purchase  or  gift,  the  natural 
property  of  the  heir  of  the  house.  Were  they  his  at 
all  ?  What  was  his  ?  Almost  nothing ;  a  legacy  his 
godfather  had  left  him,  a  little  money  he  had  at  the 
bank,  the  remains  of  the  allowance  he  had  from  his 
father  ;  that,  of  course,  would  stop.  He  must  find 
work  of  some  kind,  —  something  which  he  could  do, 
enough  to  maintain  himself  —  and  his  wife.  His 
wife !  Good  heavens !  was  it  to  poverty  he  was  to 
bring  her?  Instead  of  transporting  her  to  the  higher 
sphere  in  which  he  had  (O  fool !)  foreseen  so  many 
difficulties,  was  he  to  give  her  only  the  dullness  of 
genteel  poverty,  —  a  poverty  harder  and  less  simple 
than  that  to  which  she  had  been  used?  Was  this 
what  it  had  come  to  ?  He  thought  for  the  first  time 
seriously  of  Edmund's  question,  — "  Does  she  love 
you?"  She  was  not  mercenary;  no,  not  like  the  so- 
ciety women.  She  would  not  count  what  he  had  or 
weigh  the  advantages  of  marrying  him,  but  —  The 
question  had  become  more  serious  even  in  the  very 
moment  of  being  put.  It  might  have  been  enough  for 
the  future  master  of  Melcombe  to  love  his  bride,  whom 
he  could  surround  with  everything  her  heart  could  de- 
sire. But  if  Lily  were  to  wed  a  man  disinherited, 
she  must  love  him.  The  chill  of  that  thought  came 
over  him  like  a  sudden  storm-cloud.  He  had  not 
asked  if  she  loved  him.  She  was  a  timid,  modest  girl, 


2o2  THE  SECOND  SON. 

who  perhaps  had  never  even  thought  of  love.  She 
would  love  him  after ;  she  would  come  to  love  him : 
he  who  could  make  her  life  like  a  fairy-tale,  who  could 
change  everything  for  her,  realize  her  every  dream,  — 
what  could  she  do  but  love  him  ?  He  had  expected  to 
be  the  fairy  prince  to  Lily,  the  giver  of  everything 
that  was  delightful  and  sweet.  He  had  never  been  ex- 
acting, he  had  not  expected  from  her  a  return  which 
he  believed  she  was  too  innocent,  too  inexperienced,  to 
have  thought  of.  It  would  almost  have  wounded  the 
delicacy  of  Roger's  passion  had  she  thrown  herself  into 
his  arms,  and  acknowledged  that  her  heart  had  already 
awakened  and  responded  to  the  fervor  of  his.  But 
now  the  question  was  altogether  changed.  Now  that 
he  had  nothing  -to  offer,  nothing  to  give  her,  it  was 
necessary  before  she  accepted  the  only  remainder, 
which  was  himself,  that  Lily's  heart  should  have 
spoken,  that  she  should  love  him.  He  had  not  thought 
of  it  in  this  light  even  when  Edmund  put  the  question 
to  him,  nor  had  Edmund  thought  of  it  in  that  light : 
but  he  saw  it  now. 

The  effect  upon  Roger  of  this  thought  was  extraor- 
dinary. Certainly  he  had  not  intended  to  carry 
away  from  Ford's  cottage  an  unwilling  bride.  He  had 
looked  for  a  sweet  consent,  a  gentle  yielding  to  his 
love,  a  growing  wonder  and  enchantment  and  delight ; 
but  now  —  In  spite  of  himself,  a  chill  got  into 
Roger's  veins.  What  had  he  to  offer  her  ?  Poverty, 
obscurity ;  an  existence  differing  from  that  in  which 
she  had  been  brought  up  in  nothing  except  that  it 
would  be  far  harder  in  its  necessities  than  those  of  the 
gamekeeper's  cottage  ever  could  have  been.  Acquies- 
cence would  not  do  any  longer.  Lily  must  choose, 
she  must  know  what  her  own  heart  said.  This  change 


GOING   AWAY.  253 

altered  all  possible  relations  between  them  at  once. 
She  must  take  a  woman's  part,  which,  he  said  to  him- 
self with  a  groan,  she  was  not  old  enough  nor  expe- 
rienced enough  to  take,  and  judge  for  herself.  It  was 
for  her  sake  that  he  would  be  poor,  but  perhaps  she 
would  be  in  the  right  if  she  refused  his  poverty.  It 
would  have  to  be  put  to  her,  at  least,  and  she  must 
decide  for  herself.  The  shifting  scenes  which  sur- 
rounded this  resolution  in  Roger's  imagination  were 
many  and  various.  He  imagined  what  he  would  say 
to  her,  and  half  a  dozen  different  ways  in  which  she 
might  reply.  She  might  put  her  hand  in  his  and  say, 
"  You  need  me  more  if  you  are  to  be  poor ;  "  or  she 
might  whisper  that  it  was  he,  and  not  his  fortune,  that 
had  ever  moved  her ;  or  she  might  tell  by  nothing  but 
a  smile,  by  nothing  but  tears,  what  her  meaning  was. 
There  were  a  hundred  ways.  Ah  !  if  that  were  so,  it 
would  be  easy  to  say  it ;  but  if  it  were  not  so  ? 

He  set  out  with  a  very  grave  face,  after  the  pretense 
at  breakfast  which  he  had  made  alone,  having  waited 
until  the  family  had  dispersed  from  that  meal,  —  all 
but  Nina,  who  sat  faithful  by  the  urn,  with  large  eyes 
expanded  by  curiosity,  watching  all  her  brother's  move- 
ments, waiting  till  she  had  poured  out  his  tea  for 
him.  Roger  did  not  even  notice  her  watchful  looks. 
He  had  not  an  idea  that  she  perused  all  the  faces 
at  that  table,  one  after  another,  and  made  them  out. 
But  something  more  was  going  on  than  was  within 
Nina's  ken :  it  was  not  enough,  she  knew,  to  conclude 
that  papa  had  been  scolding  the  boys,  —  that  was  the 
only  way  of  putting  it  which  she  was  accustomed  to ; 
but  by  this  time  she  was  aware  that  it  was  more  seri- 
ous than  that.  Roger's  face,  however,  was  all  shut 
and  closed  to  her  scrutiny  ;  the  upper  lip  firmly  set 
against  the  lower,  the  chin  square,  the  eyes  overcast. 


254  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"Will  you  have  another  cup  of  tea,  Roger?"  she 
said. 

"  No,  Nina,  thanks." 

"  Won't  you  have  something  to  eat,  Roger  ?  You 
have  had  nothing.  A  gentleman  can't  breakfast  on  a 
cup  of  tea." 

"  Thank  you,*my  dear ;  I  have  had  all  I  want." 

"  Oh,  Roger,  I  'm  afraid  you  are  not  well.  Oh, 
Roger,  do  eat  something  before  you  go  out." 

Her  voice  was  so  much  disturbed  that  he  paused  to 
pat  her  upon  the  shoulder,  as  he  passed  her. 

"  Don't  trouble  about  me,  Nina.  I  have  more  to 
think  of  than  breakfast,"  Roger  said.  His  tone  was 
more  gentle  than  usual,  his  hand  lingered  tenderly 
upon  her  shoulder.  Nina  got  very  quickly  to  her 
window,  when  he  had  left  the  room  ;  there  was  no 
more  occasion  for  keeping  her  place  by  the  urn.  She 
watched  till  he  came  out  from  the  other  side  of  the 
house  and  took  his  way  across  the  park.  To  the  West 
Lodge  again,  and  so  early  !  It  became  clear  to  Nina 
that  something  more  must  be  involved  than  a  scolding 
from  papa. 

Roger  had  not  the  air  of  a  happy  lover ;  his  face 
was  grave  and  pale  and  full  of  care.  He  went  straight 
across  the  park  as  the  bird  flies,  not  even  perceiving 
the  obstacles  in  his  way.  It  was  a  mode  of  progress 
as  different  from  the  manner  in  which  he  used  to  ap- 
proach that  centre  of  his  thoughts,  circling  and  cir- 
cling until,  as  if  by  accident,  he  found  himself  close  to 
the  little  humble  place  in  which  was  his  shrine, —  as 
different  as  the  evening  leisure,  the  soft  nightfall, 
when  beasts  and  men  were  alike  drawing  homeward, 
was  to  this  morning  hour  of  life  and  labor.  Ford's 
cottage  was  different,  too ;  it  was  astir  with  morning 


GOING  AWAY.  255 

sounds  of  work  and  the  rude  employments  of  every 
day.  One  of  the  helpers  about  the  Meleombe  stables 
was  busy  outside  with  something  for  the  pheasants, 
with  half  a  dozen  dogs  following  him  wherever  he 
moved  ;  and  the  sound  of  his  heavy  footsteps  coming 
and  going,  the  rattle  of  the  grain  in  the  baskets,  the 
scuffling  and  occasional  barking  of  the  young  dogs, 
jarred  upon  Roger,  whose  first  impulse  was  to  order 
the  man  away.  But  he  remembered,  with  a  half  smile 
which  threw  a  strange  light  upon  his  face,  that  he 
had  no  longer  any  authority  here,  and  passed  on  to 
the  house. 

Mrs.  Ford  was  busy  with  her  domestic  work  within, 
—  very  busy  cleaning  bright  copper  kettles  and  brass 
candlesticks,  which  stood  in  a  row  upon  the  table  and 
made  a  great  show ;  but  though  she  seemed  so  hard  at 
work,  it  was  probable  that  Mrs.  Ford  was  not  work- 
ing at  all.  Her  honest  face  was  disturbed  with  care. 
She  was  red  with  trouble  and  anxiety.  When  she 
curtsied  to  the  young  master,  as  he  came  in,  the  salu- 
tation concealed  a  start  which  was  not  of  surprise,  but 
rather  acknowledged  the  coming  of  a  crisis  for  which 
she  was  on  the  outlook  and  prepared. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  Roger,  quickly,  "  to  see  Lily, 
as  you  will  understand ;  but  I  have  also  come,  Mrs. 
Ford,  to  see  you.  Where  is  Ford  ?  I  suppose  you 
told  him  what  I  said  to  you  last  night." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Roger!"  cried  Mrs.  Ford,  wiping  her 
hands  in  her  apron,  with  another  curtsy.  "Oh,  sir, 
yes,  I  told  him." 

"  Is  he  here  ?  You  must  have  known  I  should  want 
to  come  to  an  understanding  at  once." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  It 's  early,  Mr.  Roger  —  we  never 
thought  —  Ford  's  away  in  the  woods  ;  he  would  n't 
bide  from  his  work." 


25b  THE  SECOND  SOX. 

"  I  suppose  he  told  you  his  mind  ;  of  coui-se  you 
know  it  well  enough.  Mrs.  Ford,  I  've  got  something 
more  to  tell  you  to-day." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Roger,"  said  Mrs.  Ford,  "  don't,  sir,  don't 
tell  me  no  more  !  I  've  not  got  the  strength  for  it. 
Oh,  don't  tell  me  no  more !  We  are  that  upset,  Ford 
and  me,  that  we  don't  know  what  to  think  or  what  to 
say." 

"  Am  I  not  to  be  trusted,  then  ?  "  asked  Roger,  with 
a  smile  of  conscious  power,  grave  as  he  was.  "  Have 
you  higher  views?  No,  I  ought  n't  to  say  that.  Why 
should  you  be  so  upset,  Ford  and  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Roger,"  she  said  again,  "  oh,  when  we 
thinks  how  it  would  be  —  What  will  the  master  say, 
as  has  been  a  good  master,  taking  one  year  with  an- 
other, ever  since  him  and  me  was  married,  —  what 
would  he  say  ?  He  has  a  rough  tongue  when  he  's  put 
out  of  his  way.  He  'd  say  as  we  'd  inveigled  you,  and 
set  snares  for  you,  and  I  don't  know  what.  He  d 
think  this  is  what  we  've  been  aiming  at  first  and  last, 
giving  her  her  eddication  for,  and  all  that." 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  think  what  he  '11 
say  ;  he  '11  take  no  notice.  We  have  had  some  words, 
he  and  I,  and  I  don't  think  he  will  interfere  any 
more.  Where  is  Lily  ?  I  have  much  to  say  to  her. 
And  as  for  you,  my  father  will  not  be  unjust  to  you." 

He  was  turning  along  the  narrow  passage  which  led 
to  Lily's  parlor,  when  Mrs.  Ford  caught  him  by  the 
arm.  "  Mr.  Roger !  Lily 's  not  there." 

"Not  there?  Where  is  she?  I  hope  you  don't 
mean  to  interfere  between  her  and  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  not  /  would  n't,"  cried  the  keeper's 
wife.  "  She  's  out  somewhere  ;  I  don't  know  where. 
She  is  just  distracted,  Mr.  Roger.  Speak  of  being 


GOING  AWAY.  257 

upset,  she  's  more  upset  than  any  one.  Oh,  wait  a  bit, 
sir ;  don't  go  after  her.  She  's  distracted,  Lily  is. 
All  this  morning  she  's  been  wringing  her  poor  hands, 
saying,  «  What  shall  I  do,  —  what  shall  I  do  ? '  She 's 
very  feeling,  too  feeling  for  her  own  good.  She  takes 
thought  for  us,  and  for  you,  and  for  every  one  afore 
herself.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  she  were  to  go  and 
hide  herself  somewhere.  I  don't  know  at  this  moment 
where  she  is." 

"  Mrs.  Ford,"  said  Roger,  almost  sternly,  "  I  must 
know  the  truth  ;  is  this  because  Lily  does  not  —  care 
for  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir !  "  exclaimed  the  woman,  trembling,  watch- 
ing him  with  furtive  eyes :  and  then  a  small  hyster- 
ical sound,  half  cough,  half  sob,  escaped  her.  "  Mr. 
Roger,  is  it  possible  she  should  n't  be  proud  ?  A  gen- 
tleman like  you  —  and  stooping  to  our  little  place  to 
seek  her  out !  Not  but  what  my  Lily  is  one  as  any 
gentleman  might "  — 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  cried,  —  "yes,  yes!  There  is  no 
question  of  that.  The  question  is,  Has  she  any  answer 
to  give  me  ?  It  is  not  because  I  am  a  gentleman,  but 
because  I  am  a  man,  that  I  want  my  answer  from 
Lily.  Does  she  want  to  avoid  me  ?  Am  I  not  her 
choice,  —  am  I  not  "  —  Roger  paused  and  turned 
to  the  door.  "  I  must  find  her,  wherever  she  is,"  he 
added. 

Mrs.  Ford  caught  his  arm  again.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Roger, 
she  do  find  such  places  among  the  trees  as  nobody  'ud 
ever  think  of.  Oh,  don't  go  after  her,  Mr.  Roger ! 
Is  it  natural,  sir,  as  she  should  n't  give  her  'eart  to 
you  ?  Who  has  she  ever  seen  but  you  ?  You  're 
the  only  gentleman  —  Oh,  sir,  don't  stop  me  like 
that.  My  girl,  she  's  a  lady  in  her  heart.  Do  you 


258  THE   SECOND   SON. 

think  she  would  ever  look  at  the  likes  of  them  com- 
mon men?  And  she  has  never  seen  nobody  but 
you.  It 's  not  that.  I  understand  what  it  is,  Mr. 
Roger,  if  you,  that  are  young,  don't  understand.  It 's 
turning  everything  wrong,  everything  upside  down, 
everybody  out  of  their  way,  all  for  one  young  little 
bit  of  a  girl.  She  can't  abear  it.  Her  father  and 
me  as  will  be  turned  out  of  house  and  home,  and  you 
as  will  be  put  all  wrong  with  the  Squire,  and  every- 
thing at  sixes  and  sevens  !  Oh  !  I  understand  her  — 
though  it  mayn't  be  so  easy  for  a  young  man  like 
you." 

"As  for  Ford  and  you,  I  '11  see  to "  —  Roger  had 
said  so  much  before  he  recollected  how  powerless  he 
now  was.  He  stopped  short,  then  added  hastily,  "I 
don't  think  you  have  any  cause  for  fear,  Mrs.  Ford ; 
my  father  has  done  all  he  can.  He  will  not  trouble 
himself  with  other  matters.  He  has  disinherited  me. 
It  does  not  matter  to  him  now  what  I  do.  Of  course, 
you  have  a  right  to  know  it ;  and  I  must  see  Lily ; 
I  must  speak  to  Lily  ;  there  must  be  no  doubt  upon 
the  subject  now.  She  must  look  at  it,  and  think  of 
it,  and  make  up  her  own  mind." 

"  Disinher — "  It  was  too  big  a  word  for  Mrs. 
Ford's  mouth,  but  not  for  her  understanding.  She 
gazed  at  Roger  with  round,  wide-open  eyes.  "Oh, 
sir,  has  he  put  you  out,  —  has  he  put  you  out?  and 
all  for  our  .Lily!"  She  wrung  her  hands.  "Oh, 
but  Mr.  Roger,  it 's  not  too  late.  You  must  n't  let 
that  be.  A  girl  may  be  both  pretty  and  good,  and 
that 's  what  my  Lily  is  ;  but  to  be  turned  out  of  house 
and  home  for  her !  Oh,  no,  no,  —  it 's  not  too  late, 
—  it  must  n't  be." 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  on  that  subject," 


GOING  AWAY.  259 

said  Roger,  with  a  certain  peremptory  tone.  "  But 
tell  me  where  she  is.  Where  is  she  ?  Why  am  I 
kept  from  her  ?  You  understand  that  I  am  leav- 
ing to-day,  and  that  I  must  see  her.  To  keep  her 
back  is  no  kindness  ;  it  is  rather  cruelty.  Let  me 
see  her  at  once,  Mrs.  Ford." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Roger  !  "  she  cried  again,  wringing  her 
hands,  "  you  can  go  into  the  parlor  and  see  for  your- 
self. She  has  been  distracted-like  in  her  mind  since 
last  night.  She  's  gone  out,  and  I  can't  tell  where 
she  is.  Oh,  sir,  for  all  our  sakes,  make  it  up  with  the 
Squire.  Don't  make  a  quarrel  in  the  family ;  go  back 
to  your  father,  Mr.  Roger,  and  don't  mind  us  no 
more !  " 

A  smile  passed  over  his  face  at  the  strange  futility 
of  the  idea.  As  well  suggest  that  the  pillars  of  the 
earth  might  be  shaken,  to  make  his  seat  more  comfort- 
able. He  waved  it  aside  with  a  movement  of  his 
hand. 

"  You  will  perceive  that  I  must  see  her  to-day.  I 
will  come  back  before  the  time  for  the  afternoon  train. 
Tell  her  —  tell  her  to  think  it  all  over ;  and  don't  at- 
tempt to  come  between  us,  for  that  is  what  cannot  be 
done  now." 

Was  he  almost  glad  in  his  heart  to  put  off  this 
interview,  although  he  was  so  anxious  for  it  ?  There 
are  times  when,  with  our  hearts  beating  for  the  turn  of 
an  event,  Nature,  sick  with  suspense  yet  terrified  for 
certainty,  will  with  both  her  hands  push  it  away. 


XXIV. 

dR.  MITFORD'S  WILL. 

ROGER  left  Melcombe  by  the  afternoon  train,  to 
which  his  brother  accompanied  him  with  feelings  in- 
describable, but  no  faith  in  anything  that  was  hap- 
pening. It  seemed  to  Edmund  like  a  feverish  dream, 
which  by  and  by  must  pass,  leaving  the  world  as  it 
was  before.  Roger  was  not  very  communicative  as 
to  what  he  was  going  to  do.  Indeed,  it  would  have 
been  difficult,  for  he  had  not  any  distinct  plans.  He 
meant  to  get  something  he  could  work  at,  with  a  great 
vagueness  iu  his  mind  as  to  what  that  would  be. 
Something  would  be  found,  he  had  no  doubt,  though 
what  he  was  fit  for,  what  he  could  do,  it  was  still 
more  difficult,  nay,  almost  impossible,  to  say ;  but 
that  was  the  least  of  his  preoccupations.  He  was 
sombre  and  downcast  about  matters  which  he  did 
not  confide  to  his  brother  ;  saying,  indeed,  nothing 
about  the  Fords,  or  Lily,  or  anything  that  went  be- 
low the  surface  of  affairs.  His  father  and  he  had 
met  at  luncheon,  but  nothing  had  been  said  between 
them.  He  left  the  house  of  his  birth  without  a  word 
of  farewell,  without  any  sign  on  his  own  part  or  that 
of  others  that  he  was  doing  more  than  going  out  for  a 
walk.  Nina,  who  had  gained  an  interest  in  his  eyes, 
he  could  not  himself  tell  how,  by  dint  of  the  anxious 
curiosity  in  hers,  which  Roger,  forlorn,  took  for  af- 
fectionate interest,  received  from  him  a  kiss  upon  her 


MR.  MITFOR&S  WILL.  2G1 

cheek,  a  most  unusual  caress,  which  astonished  her 
greatly.  "  You  are  not  going  away,  Roger  ?  "  she 
said,  scanning  him  all  over  with  those  keen  eyes,  see- 
ing no  indication  of  a  journey,  no  change  in  his  dress, 
yet  suspecting  something,  she  did  not  know  what. 
"  Good-by,  little  Nina ;  be  good,  and  take  care  of 
yourself,"  said  he.  And  these  were  all  the  adieux  he 
made. 

When  they  reached  the  station,  Edmund  observed 
that  his  brother  glanced  round  him  anxiously  as  if 
looking  for  some  one ;  but  he  did  not  say  for  whom 
he  looked.  His  last  glance  out  of  the  carriage  win- 
dow was  still  one  of  scrutiny ;  but  it  was  evident  that 
he  did  not  find  what  he  was  expecting,  and  it  was  with 
an  air  of  dissatisfaction  and  disappointment  that  he 
threw  himself  back  into  his  corner,  not  making  any 
response  to  Edmund,  nor,  indeed,  seeing  him  as  he 
stood  to  watch  the  train  go  away.  The  station  was 
as  little  frequented  as  usual ;  one  or  two  passengers, 
who  had  been  dropped  by  the  train,  dispersing ;  one 
or  two  vacant  bystanders  turning  their  backs  as  the 
momentary  excitement  died  away  ;  Edmund  watching 
the  line  of  carriages  disappear  with  a  sensation  of 
sickness  and  confusion  of  faculties  far  more  serious, 
he  said  to  himself,  than  could  be  called  for.  There 
was  nothing  tragic  in  the  matter,  after  all.  Even  if 
Roger  were  disinherited,  as  his  father  threatened, 
some  provision  must  be  made  for  him,  and  no  doubt 
there  would  be  time  for  many  changes  of  sentiment 
before  any  disinheritance  could  be  operative,  the 
Squire  being  a  man  full  of  strength  and  health, 
more  vigorous  than  any  of  his  sons.  What  if 
Roger  did  make  an  unsatisfactory  marriage  ?  Hun- 
dreds of  men  had  done  that,  and  yet  been  little  the 


262  THE  SECOND  SON. 

worse.  If  a  woman  were  pretty  and  pleasant,  who 
cared  to  inquire  who  her  father  was  ?  Lily  would  no 
doubt  put  on  very  readily  the  outside  polish  of  society. 
After  all,  there  was  nothing  tragic  about  it;  and  yet  — 

Edmund,  as  was  natural,  strayed  into  the  Rectory 
on  his  way  home,  and,  what  was  equally  natural,  un- 
bosomed himself  to  Pax,  who  had  seen  the  brothers 
pass,  and  who  knew  somehow,  neither  she  herself  nor 
any  one  else  knew  how,  that  something  was  wrong  at 
Melcombe.  "  My  father  speaks  very  big,  but  of 
course  he  will  never  do  it,"  Edmund  said. 

"  I  would  not  be  too  sure  of  that.  He  may  some- 
times say  more  than  he  means  to  carry  out,  but  when 
he  is  set  at  defiance  like  this  "  — 

"  Pax,  you  go  in  too  much  for  the  authorities.  A 
man  over  thirty  may  surely  choose  a  wife  for  him- 
self." 

"  He  should  choose  for  his  father  too,  when  he  is 
the  eldest  son,"  said  Pax.  "  Don't  talk  to  me.  It's 
all  an  unnatural  system,  if  you  like.  I  don't  mind 
what  you  say  on  that  subject ;  but  granting  the  sys- 
tem, it 's  clear  to  me  what  must  follow.  If  you  're  to 
carry  on  a  family,  you  must  carry  it  on.  It 's  quite 
a  different  thing  when  you  live  an  independent  life. 
The  predestined  heir  can  never  be  an  independent 
man." 

"  That  is  not  the  opinion  of  the  world,"  returned 
Edmund,  with  a  smile. 

"  It 's  my  opinion,  and  I  don't  think  I  'm  a  fool. 
Now  you  are  free  to  please  yourself.  You  might 
marry  Lily  Ford  and  welcome.  No  one  has  any  right 
to  interfere  with  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Edmund ;  "  my  tastes  don't  lie 
that  way." 


MR.  MITFOPD'S  WILL.  263 

"  No,"  answered  Pax ;  "  you  might,  and  won't ; 
and  Roger  ought  not,  but  does.  That  is  the  way  al- 
ways. I  blame  him  very  much,  though  I  'm  sorry  for 
him.  She  is  not  worth  it.  There  are  some  women 
who  are,  though.  If  Lizzie  Travers  had  not  a  shil- 
ling, she  would  be  worth  it.  She  's  a  fortune  in  her- 
self." 

"  Why  bring  in  her  name  ?  "  said  Edmund ;  "  though 
I  don't  doubt  you  are  right  enough." 

"  I  bring  in  her  name  for  this,  Edmund  :  that  your 
father  is  quite  right  about  her,  and  that  if  you  let  her 
slip  through  your  fingers  it  will  be  wicked  as  well  as 
foolish.  There,  that 's  my  opinion.  Roger  's  out  of 
the  question.  Now,  Edmund,  a  vous  "  — 

"  You  speak  as  if  it  did  n't  much  matter  which,  so 
long  as  it  was  one  of  us ;  that  is  highly  disrespectful, 
I  think,  to  one  of  whom  — to  one  who  "  — 

"  Yes,"  said  Pax,  "  that 's  right ;  resent  it  on  her 
account.  That 's  exactly  what  I  knew  you  would  do. 
Why  bring  in  her  name,  as  you  say?  Poor  Roger, 
poor  boy  !  So  he  thinks  the  world  well  lost  for  Lily 
Ford.  I  could  hope  he  would  never  live  to  change 
his  mind  ;  but  I  fear  that  is  not  likely  to  be.  Lily 
Ford !  Well,  she  is  neither  a  bad  girl  nor  a  silly  one, 
any  more  than  she  can  help  being.  I  don't  think  ill 
of  her  at  all.  She  wants  to  be  a  lady,  naturally,  after 
her  ridiculous  bringing  up,  but  she  has  not  a  bad 
heart.  There 's  nothing  bad  about  her.  If  she  is 
fond  of  him,  if  she  has  any  sort  of  love  for  him,  all 
may  come  well." 

Though  Edmund  had  himself  expressed  a  doubt  OH 
this  point,  he  could  not  hear  it  suggested  by  another. 
"  If  she  does  not,  she  must  be  perverse  indeed,"  he 
said.  "Whom  can  she  have  seen  equal  to  Roger? 


264  THE   SECOND  SON. 

I  suppose  he  is  the  only  gentleman  who  has  ever  come 
in  her  way." 

"  Who  knows  ? "  observed  Pax,  oracularly.  She 
had  not  the  slightest  intention  in  what  she  said,  nor 
did  she  know  anything  about  the  people  whom  Lily 
might  have  met.  But  she  had  a  rooted  objection  to 
assumptions  generally.  "  Who  knows  ?  A  girl  like 
that  finds  men  to  admire  her  in  the  depths  of  a  wood, 
where  other  people  would  see  nothing  but  twisted 
trees." 

Altogether  she  did  not  give  much  comfort  to  her 
visitor;  and  Edmund  did  not  find  any  pleasure  in 
that  day.  He  had  to  meet  his  father  at  dinner,  who 
did  worse  than  inquire  about  Roger;  he  took  no 
notice  of  his  absence,  not  even  of  the  empty  chair  at 
the  other  end  of  the  table,  which  Edmund  would  not 
take,  and  which  marked  painfully  the  absence  of  the 
eldest  son.  Mr.  Mitford  talked  a  great  deal  at  din- 
ner ;  he  told  stories  which  made  Nina  laugh,  and  even 
produced  from  the  young  footman  a  faint  explosion, 
for  which  Larkins  made  him  suffer  afterwards.  Ed- 
mund, however,  would  not  laugh  ;  he  sat  silent,  and 
let  his  father's  pleasantries  pass,  the  presence  of  his 
pale,  grave  face  making  a  painful  contrast  with  the 
gayety  of  the  others.  Larkins  was  as  deeply  con- 
scious of  the  strained  state  of  affairs  as  Edmund  was, 
and  went  about  the  shaded  background  of  the  room 
with  more  solemnity  than  ever,  while  the  Squire  went 
on  with  his  story-telling,  and  Nina  laughed.  Nina, 
indeed,  did  not  want  to  laugh  ;  she  wanted  to  know 
why  Roger  had  gone  away,  and  what  was  the  meaning 
of  it  all.  But  papa  was  "so  funny,"  she  could  not 
but  yield  to  the  irresistible.  The  dinner  is  always  a 
dreadful  ordeal  at  such  periods  of  family  history,  and 


MR.  MIT  FORD'S  WILL.  265 

most  likely  it  was  to  hide  his  own  perception  of  this, 
and  do  away  with  the  effect  upon  himself  of  that 
significant  vacancy  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  that 
the  Squire  took  refuge  in  being  funny,  which  was  not 
at  all  his  usual  way. 

Next  day  Edmund  was  called  to  his  father  in  the 
library.  He  found  him  in  close  consultation  with  Mr. 
Pouncefort,  the  solicitor  who  had  been  charged  with 
the  family  business  almost  all  his  life,  having  inherited 
that,  with  other  lifelong  occupations  of  the  same  kind, 
from  his  father.  Mr.  Pouncefort  sat  at  Mr.  Mit- 
ford's  own  writing-table,  with  a  bag  full  of  papers  at 
his  feet,  and  turned  a  very  rueful  countenance  upon 
Edmund  as  he  entered.  He  accompanied  this  look 
with  a  slight  shake  of  the  head,  when  Edmund  came 
up  and  shook  hands  with  him.  "  Pretty  well,  pretty 
well,"  he  said,  mournfully  ;  "  as  well  as  can  be  ex- 
pected, considering  "  —  in  answer  to  the  young  man's 
question.  He  was  a  neat  little  old  man,  with  silver- 
gray  hair  carefully  brushed,  and  a  way  of  puckering 
up  his  brows  which  made  his  face  look  like  a  flexible 


"  Look  here,  Edmund,"  said  his  father,  "  I  have 
been  settling  my  affairs,  as  I  told  you." 

"  He  means  destroying  his  will,  a  very  reasonable 
will,  and  making  one  that  oughtn't  to  stand  for  a 
moment,"  broke  in  Mr.  Pouncefort,  shaking  his  head 
and  pushing  up  into  his  hair  the  folds  of  his  fore- 
head. 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,  you  old  croaker !  Pouncefort 
knows  every  man's  business  better  than  bsrdoes  him- 
self." 

"  It 's  my  business  to  do  so,  and  I  do.  I  know  your 
affairs  all  off  by  heart,  which  is  a  great  deal  more 


266  THE   SECOND   SON. 

than  you  do.  And  I  can  see  to-day  from  to-morrow, 
which  you  can't  in  your  present  state  of  mind.  I 
don't  know  my  own  affairs  a  hundredth  part  so  well 
as  I  know  yours.  Look  here,  a  bargain :  take  my  ad- 
vice about  your  business,  and  you  shall  say  what  I  'in 
to  do  with  mine." 

The  county  gentleman  looked  at  his  solicitor  with 
eyes  in  which  familiar  friendliness  scarcely  concealed 
the  underlying  contempt.  They  had  known  each 
other  all  their  lives,  —  had  been  boys  together,  and 
called  each  other,  in  those  days,  by  their  Christian 
names.  Mr.  Pouncefort  was  as  independent  and 
nearly  as  rich  as  the  Squire,  but  he  was  only  a  solici- 
tor when  all  was  said.  "  What !  "  Mr.  Mitford  cried, 
"  if  I  advise  you  to  let  your  son  marry  the  housemaid  ? 
Come,  Pouncefort,  no  folly.  Read  the  stipulations  to 
Edmund,  and  if  he  likes  to  abide  by  them  it 's  all 
right.  If  not,  I  think  I  know  another  who  will." 

"  I  declare  to  goodness,"  asserted  Mr.  Pouncefort, 
"  I  'd  rather  see  my  son  marry  anybody  than  put  my 
hand  to  this !  " 

"  I  did  n't  send  for  the  pope  nor  the  bishop  to  tell 
me  what  was  right,"  said  the  other  old  man.  "  I  sent 
for  my  solicitor  —  I  dare  say  Edmund  has  a  hundred 
things  to  do,  and  you  're  wasting  his  valuable  time." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do,  and  I  wish  you  would  listen, 
sir,  to  what  "  — 

"  By  Jove  ! "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  jumping  up 
from  his  chair,  "  is  this  my  business,  or  whose  busi- 
ness is  it  ?  Let  him  hear  it,  and  let  us  be  done  with 
it.  I  cani*  stay  here  all  day." 

Upon  which  Mr.  Pouncefort,  occasionally  pausing 
to  launch  a  comment,  read  the  new  settlement  of  the 
Mitford  property,  which  after  all  was  not  so  cruel  as 


MR.   MITFORD'S  WILL.  267 

appeared.  Roger  was  not  cut  off  with  a  shilling ;  he 
was  to  have  ten  thousand  pounds  :  but  his  successor 
as  Mr.  Mitford's  heir  was  strictly  barred  from  convey- 
ing back  to  him  or  his  heirs,  under  any  pretense,  any 
portion  of  the  property.  Roger  was  excluded  for- 
mally and  forever  from  all  share  in  Melcombe.  Any 
attempt  at  the  transgression  of  this  stipulation  was  to 
entail  at  once  a  forfeiture  of  the  estate,  which  should 
then  pass  to  the  persons  to  be  hereafter  named.  The 
spaces  for  the  names  were  all  blank.  Mr.  Pouncefort, 
shaking  his  head,  interjecting  now  and  then  an  ex- 
clamation, read  to  the  end :  and  then  he  opened  out 
the  crackling  papers  on  the  table,  and  turned  round 
first  to  the  Squire,  who  had  resumed  his  seat  and 
listened  with  a  sort  of  triumphant  complacency,  then 
to  Edmund,  who  had  stood  all  the  time  leaning  on  the 
back  of  a  high  carved  chair.  "  There  !  "  cried  the 
lawyer,  "  there  's  your  confounded  instructions  carried 
out,  and  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  for  doing  it;  and 
now,  Edmund,  it 's  for  you  to  speak." 

"  My  answer  is  very  simple,"  said  Edmund.  "  It 
can  be  no  disappointment  to  you,  sir,  for  you  must 
have  foreseen  it.  I  refuse  "  — 

"  You  refuse !  You  are  a  great  fool  for  your  pains. 
You  had  better  take  time  to  think  it  over.  A  day 'or 
two  can't  make  much  difference,  Pouucefort." 

"  A  day  or  two  might  make  all  the  difference,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Pouncefort.  "  Why,  you  might  die  —  any 
of  us  might  die  —  before  dinner." 

Once  more  the  Squire  jumped  out  of  his  chair.  "  I 
think  you  want  to  drive  me  to  "  — 

"  Suicide  ?  "  said  little  Mr.  Pouncefort.  "  Oh,  no  ; 
but  I  '11  tell  you  one  thing,  Mitford.  If  you  thought 
you  were  going  to  die  before  dinner,  —  ay,  or  after  it, 
either,  —  you  would  not  make  this  will." 


268  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  You  think  yourself  privileged,"  cried  the  Squire, 
with  a  puff  of  hot  breath.  "  So  far  as  I'm  aware  my 
death  is  nothing  to  you,  or  when  it  takes  place.  Ed- 
mund "  — 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  the  lawyer,  "  it 's  a  great  deal 
to  me,  for  we  're  the  same  age  ;  and  when  you  go,  I  '11 
have  to  be  looking  to  my  preparations  for  the  voyage. 
I  don't  want  it  to  happen  a  day  sooner  than  can  be 
helped." 

**  Edmund,"  said  Mr.  Mitford,  "  all  this  is  utterly 
beyond  the  question.  Take  a  day  or  two  to  think. 
I  don't  want  to  hurry  you.  I  like  to  deal  justly  with 
everybody.  You  're  the  next,  and  I  don't  want  to 
pass  you  over ;  but  don't  think  you  can  bully  me  by 
refusing :  for  I  '11  stick  to  my  intention  whether  you 
go  in  with  it  or  not." 

"  I  want  no  time  to  think,  sir ;  there  can't  be  a 
question  about  my  decision.  I  am  as  grieved  about 
Roger  as  you  can  be,  but  I  will  never  step  into  his 
place." 

"'Never'  is  a  long  word.  He  might  die,  as 
Pouncefort  's  so  fond  of  suggesting,  and  then,  of 
course,  you  would  take  his  place." 

"  I  never  will  while  he  lives ;  I  never  will  to  his 
detriment.  Father,  don't  do  anything  about  it  now. 
You  are  as  young  as  the  best  of  us.  What  does  it 
matter  whether  it's  decided  now  or  in  six  months' 
time  ?  For  the  moment  let  it  alone.  We  are  all  ex- 
cited "  — 

"  Not  I,"  declared  the  Squire,  "  though  Pouncefort 
thinks  I  may  die  before  dinner." 

The  lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Edmund  's  a 
very  sensible  fellow,"  he  said ;  "  suppose  we  put  it  off 
for  six  months." 


MR.   MITFORD' S  WILL.  269 

"  What !  to  leave  me  time  to  die,  as  you  say,  and 
balk  myself  ?  No,  I  tell  you.  I  know  where  to  find 
a  man  to  do  what  I  want,  if  you  refuse.  Let  it  be 
yes  or  no,  then,  on  the  spot,  if  that 's  what  you 
choose." 

"  It  must  be  no,  then,  sir,  —  no,  without  a  shadow 
of  hesitation,"  Edmund  replied.  His  face  was  very 
grave  and  pale,  —  as  different  as  could  be  imagined 
from  his  father's  red  and  angry  physiognomy.  Mr. 
Mitford  knew  it  was  bad  for  him  to  be  thus  excited. 
Dying  before  dinner  is  not  such  an  impossible  tiling, 
when  a  man  is  stout,  of  a  full  habit,  and  allows  him- 
self to  get  into  states  of  excitement.  He  had  a  roar 
of  rage  in  his  throat  to  deliver  upon  his  son,  but  was 
stopped  by  this  thought,  which  had  more  effect  upon 
him  than  a  high  moral  reason.  He  pulled  himself  up 
with  another  puff  of  heated  breathing,  which  was  half 
a  snort ;  and  then  assumed  the  air  of  mockery  which 
was,  he  was  aware,  his  most  effectual  weapon. 

"  Very  well,  then,  sir,"  he  said,  with  that  very  de- 
testable mimicry  of  his  son's  tone.  "  It  shall  be  no, 
then,  sir,  and  there  's  an  end  of  it.  And  I  know 
some  one  who  will  not  have  a  shadow  of  hesitation, 
not  a  —  Stephen  knows  very  well  on  what  side  his 
bread  's  buttered.  I  '11  telegraph  for  Steve,  Pounce- 
fort." 

"  Writing  will  do  quite  well ;  I  'm  in  no  hurry. 
One  would  think  it  was  I  that  was  pushing  this  mat- 
ter on." 

"  Why,  I  might  die  —  before  dinner,"  the  Squire 
retorted.  To  be  mimicked  is  never  pleasant,  but  to 
be  mimicked  badly  is  a  thing  beyond  the  power  of 
mortal  man  to  support.  Mr.  Mitford  had  no  imita- 
tive powers.  Mr.  Pouncefort  grew  an  angry  red 
under  his  gray  hair. 


270  THE  SECOND  SON. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Larkins  opened  the 
door,  and  came  in  in  his  dignified  way,  —  a  way  that 
put  an  end  to  everything  in  the  shape  of  a  scene 
wherever  he  appeared.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  mak- 
ing a  wide  circuit  round  the  furniture,  with  a  calm 
and  decorum  which  made  excited  persons  ashamed  of 
themselves,  and  which  transferred  all  their  attention, 
in  spite  of  themselves,  to  this  perfectly  digne  and 
respectable  messenger  from  a  world  outside  which 
made  no  account  of  their  excitements. 

"  Mr.  Edmund,  sir,"  Larkins  said,  "  there  is  a  per- 
son outside  who  wishes  to  see  you." 

Larkins  was  far  above  making  telegraphic  com- 
munications to  any  man,  especially  to  one  of  the 
family ;  but  there  was  something  in  his  look  which 
startled  Edmund. 

"  A  person,"  he  repeated  involuntarily,  "  to  see 
me?" 

"A  very  respectable  person,  sir,"  Larkins  said. 
Then  he  walked  round  the  furniture  again,  making 
the  circuit  of  the  room,  and  stood  at  the  door,  holding 
it  open  to  let  his  young  master  pass. 

Mr.  Mitford  had  seated  himself  in  his  chair  at  the 
appearance  of  Larkins,  with  the  aspect  of  a  judge 
upon  the  bench,  severe  but  amiable  ;  and  Mr.  Pounce- 
fort  had  smoothed  down  all  the  billows  of  his  fore- 
head, as  if  nothing  had  ever  disturbed  him.  Calm 
and  self-respect  caine  back  with  that  apparition.  Ed- 
mund was  too  glad  to  take  advantage  of  the  interrup- 
tion. He  hurried  out,  with  little  thought  of  the  ob- 
ject of  the  call,  —  glad  to  be  delivered  anyhow. 

"  I  have  taken  her  up  to  your  room,  sir.  I  thought 
you  'd  be  quieter  there,"  Larkins  said. 

"  Her  I     Whom  ?     Who  is  it  ?     Has  anything  hap- 


MR.  MITFORD'S  WILL.  271 

pened?"  cried  Edmund,  scarcely  knowing  what  he 
said. 

"It  is  a  female,  Mr.  Edmund ;  very  respectable, 
and  in  a  deal  of  trouble." 

Edmund  rushed  up-stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time. 
He  did  not  know  what  he  feared.  His  rooms  were  at 
the  end  of  a  long  corridor,  and  the  mere  fact  that  his 
visitor  should  have  been  taken  there  was  startling. 
What  woman  could  want  him  in  this  way?  But  im- 
agination could  not  have  helped  him  to  call  up  that 
homely  figure  in  the  garb  of  a  perfect  rustic  respect- 
ability, such  as  Larkins  knew  how  to  value,  which 
came  rushing  forward  as  he  opened  the  door,  turning 
upon  him  an  honest  face,  red  with  crying  and  misery. 
"  Oh,  sir,  where  's  my  Lily  ?  Oh,  what 's  been  done 
with  my  Lily  ?  Oh,  for  the  love  of  God  —  if  you 
care  for  that !  Mr.  Edmund,  Mr.  Edmund,  where  is 
my  girl  ?  Tell  me,  and  I  '11  go  on  my  knees  and  bless 
you.  Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me,  if  you  don't  want  to  see 
me  die  before  your  eyes !  " 

"  Mrs.  Ford  !  "  Edmund  cried,  with  an  astonish- 
ment beyond  words. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Mr.  Edmund  !  Yes,  I  'm  her 
mother,  her  poor  mother,  that  has  trained  her,  may  be, 
for  her  ruin.  Oh,  where  is  my  girl  ?  Where 's  my 
Lily  ?  Tell  me,  sir,  tell  me  wherever  it  is,  and  I  '11 
thank  you  on  my  knees." 

And  the  poor  woman  flung  herself,  in  her  big  shawl 
and  respectable  bonnet,  her  eyes  streaming,  her  face 
working  with  wild  supplication,  heavily  at  his  feet 
upon  the  carpet ;  a  figure  half  ridiculous,  wholly 
tragic,  in  all  the  abandonment  of  despair. 


XXV. 

LILY'S  RESOLUTION. 

LILY  FORD  had  been  extraordinarily  moved  by 
Roger's  declaration.  It  had  an  effect  upon  her  imag- 
ination which  was  beyond  all  reason,  and  quite  out  of 
proportion  with  the  event.  She  had  not  been  without 
stirrings  of  heart  as  to  Roger's  visits  in  the  days  when 
her  mind  was  still  free,  and  Stephen  was  to  her  only 
a  vague  shadow  of  that  hero  of  romance  for  whose  ar- 
rival she  was  looking  daily.  Roger's  appearance  had 
been,  indeed,  the  first  that  had  roused  the  expectation 
in  her,  and  made  that  general  and  shadowy  sense  of 
something  about  to  happen,  which  is  always  dominant 
in  a  girl's  mind,  into  a  still  shadowy  but  more  possi- 
ble reality.  Her  heart  had  beat  its  first,  not  for  him, 
but  for  the  excitement  of  his  coming,  the  prince,  the 
knight,  the  lover  of  all  the  romances.  Afterwards 
Lily  had  grown  a  little  afraid  of  Roger.  His  visits, 
his  looks,  his  tones,  all  flattered  her,  but  frightened 
her  at  the  same  time.  Perhaps  she  never  could  have 
been  at  her  ease  with  him  as  with  Stephen.  He  rev- 
erenced her  too  much,  and  Lily  knew  very  well  that 
this  was  not  the  appropriate  sentiment  with  which  to 
regard  her.  Admiration  she  understood  perfectly, 
and  love  more  or  less  ;  but  that  ideal  respect  bewil- 
dered her,  and  impaired  her  self-possession  in  his  pres- 
ence. That  she  should  look  up  to  him  as  an  elder 
brother  and  head  of  the  family  was  a  much  more  pos- 


LILTS  RESOLUTION.  273 

sible  relation  than  anything  more  familiar,  and  in  this 
light  she  had  begun  to  regard  Roger  vaguely  before 
his  sudden  disappearance.  But  now  that  all  was 
changed,  now  that  she  was  Stephen's  betrothed,  almost 
his  bride,  his  brother's  sudden  return,  his  sudden  ap- 
peal to  her,  the  almost  certainty  there  seemed  in  his 
mind  that  he  must  be  the  first  who  had  so  addressed 
her,  and  that  only  her  anxiety  for  her  father  prevented 
her  full  response,  was  an  overwhelming  surprise,  and 
indeed  a  horror,  to  Lily.  It  shocked  and  paralyzed 
her.  Her  "  Oh,  Mr.  Roger ! "  was  a  cry  of  terror. 
No  other  words  would  come,  nor  did  she  know  what 
to  do  except  to  fly,  to  hurry  away,  to  hide  her  face  and 
stop  her  ears,  that  she  might  not  hear  nor  see  those 
avowals,  which  not  only  were  almost  criminal,  but 
would  raise,  she  felt  vaguely,  such  a  wall  of  separation 
between  herself  and  the  brother  of  her  future  husband 
as  nothing  hereafter  could  overcome. 

Lily  was  altogether  more  painfully  affected  by  this 
incident  than  could  have  been  supposed  possible.  It 
made  her  wretched,  it  filled  her  with  visionary  terror. 
It  was  wrong,  wicked,  unnatural.  His  sister-in  law ! 
and  she  dared  not  tell  him,  —  dared  not  betray  the 
position  in  which  she  stood  towards  Stephen,  who  by 
this  time  had  no  doubt  got  the  license  and  prepared 
everything  for  their  marriage.  The  situation  over- 
whelmed the  girl ;  no  better  expedient  occurred  to  her 
than  to  shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  from  which, 
scarcely  venturing  to  breathe  lest  she  should  be  dis- 
covered, with  feelings  of  alarm  and  agitation  indescrib- 
able, she  had  listened  to  the  voice  of  Roger  speaking 
to  her  mother  down-stairs.  Mrs.  Ford,  for  her  part, 
did  not  understand  Lily's  panic,  nor  why  she  should 
hide  herself.  It  was,  no  doubt,  a  very  agitating  and 


274  THE   SECOND  SON. 

splendid  event ;  but  except  for  the  natural  tremor  of 
so  enormous  a  success,  and  some  qualms  of  alarm  as 
to  its  immediate  effect  upon  Ford's  position  as  game- 
keeper,—  qualms  calmed  by  the  thought  that  every- 
thing must  come  right  in  the  end,  for  Mrs.  Ford  had 
no  faith  in  disinheritance,  —  the  mother  would  have 
easily  made  up  her  mind  to  boundless  joy  and  triumph. 
But  Lily's  condition  was  not  to  be  accounted  for  by 
mere  nervousness  or  excitement.  She  was  so  deter- 
mined that  Roger's  suit  could  not  be  listened  to  for  a 
moment,  so  anxious  to  hide  herself  and  keep  out  of 
his  way,  that  Mrs.  Ford  was  compelled  to  yield  with  a 
troubled  heart  to  these  tremors.  She  had  long  ago 
discovered  that  she  did  not  always  understand  Lily. 
How  should  she  ?  The  girl  was  far  above  her  mother 
in  so  many  things.  It  was  a  pride  the  more  to  think 
that  so  humble  a  woman  as  she  was  could  not  always 
tell  what  her  child  meant,  —  her  child,  who  was  so 
much  superior  to  any  other  woman's  child. 

But  while  Lily  thus  lurked  terror-stricken  in  her 
room,  her  mind  was  full  of  many  troubled  thoughts. 
The  time  had  come,  she  felt,  when  her  fate  could  no 
longer  hang  in  the  balance ;  when  that  decision,  which 
she  could  not  but  feel  to  be  an  awful  one,  must  be 
made.  For  nothing  in  the  world  would  she  run  the 
risk  of  meeting  Roger  again,  or  being  once  more  ad- 
dressed by  him  in  those  words  which  she  trembled  to 
think  of.  Rather  anything  than  that ;  rather  the  final 
step,  the  plunge  which  she  longed,  yet  feared  to  make. 
She  had  parted  from  Stephen  with  a  promise  that  her 
decision  should  not  be  long  delayed,  but  whether  \vith- 
out  this  new  excitement  Lily  would  ever  have  been 
able  to  wind  herself  up  to  so  bold  a  step  it  is  impos- 
sible to  tell.  She  sat  upon  the  floor  in  •  her  little 


LILTS  RESOLUTION.  275 

chamber,  all  crouched  together,  sick  with  alarm  and 
nervous  excitement,  while  the  sound  of  Roger's  mas- 
culine voice  came  up  from  below.  She  had  consented 
that  Stephen  should  remain  in  town  awaiting  her,  and 
that  he  should  take  all  the  steps  about  the  license ; 
she  had  even  promised  to  let  him  know,  by  a  telegram, 
the  time  of  her  arrival,  in  order  that  he  might  meet 
and  take  her  to  the  house  he  had  selected, —  the 
house,  of  course,  of  a  good  woman,  an  old  servant, 
who  would  care  for  her  until  the  hour  of  the  marriage, 
for  which,  in  the  mean  time,  all  should  be  prepared. 
Everything  had  been  arranged  between  them,  even  to 
that  old  church  in  the  city  which  Lily,  aided  by  her 
experience  of  novels,  had  thought  the  safest,  and  which 
he  had  yielded  to,  though  avowing  his  preference  for 
a  registrar's  office.  A  registrar's  office  !  Oh,  no,  that 
would  have  been  no  marriage  at  all !  And  at  last  he 
had  consented,  and  even  had  discovered  that  he  knew 
the  very  place,  —  an  old,  old  church,  quite  out  of  the 
way.  All  these  things  began  to  swim  through  Lily's 
head  as  she  sat  on  the  floor,  in  the  panic  and  humilia- 
tion of  her  thoughts,  listening  to  the  far-off  sound  of 
Roger's  voice  ;  anticipating  the  horror  of  perhaps  see- 
ing him  again,  of  having  to  make  him  some  answer, 
of  her  mother's  wondering  questions,  and  of  all  the 
commotion  which  she  did  not  know  how  to  face. 

And  on  the  other  side,  how  much  there  was  !  Her 
lover  waiting,  longing,  hoping  that  every  day  would 
bring  her  to  his  arms ;  a  new  life,  the  life  she  bad  al- 
ways known  must  one  day  be  hers,  and  happiness,  and 
splendor,  and  her  right  position,  and  the  society  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  All  this  lay  before  her,  sepa- 
rated from  her  only  by  the  decision,  by  the  one  step 
out  of  her  present  world  into  the  other,  which  would 


276  THE  SECOND  SON. 

indeed  be  something  like  dying  and  coming  to  life 
again,  and  yet  would  be  so  quick,  accompanied  by  so 
little  pain  ;  a  thing,  too,  that  must  be  done  sooner  or 
later.  Lily  scarcely  thought  of  the  pangs  she  would 
leave  behind  her,  of  the  tortures  her  father  and  mother 
would  have  to  suffer.  It  would  be  only  for  a  moment, 
she  reflected,  for  a  single  night,  or  perhaps  a  couple 
of  days ;  and  then  what  comfort  and  delight  to  fol- 
low !  The  pain  was  scarcely  worth  thinking  of.  Mrs. 
Ford  herself  would  not  complain :  she  would  say  it 
was  nothing  ;  it  was  a  cheap  price  to  pay  for  knowing 
her  child  to  be  so  happy.  Her  mother's  very  humble- 
ness reassured  Lily.  The  parents  would  care  nothing 
for  the  anxiety  after  it  was  over ;  they  would  be  so 
glad,  so  glad,  when  the  next  day  a  telegram  told  them 
that  all  was  well. 

But  was  she  herself  strong  enough  to  do  it, — 
that  was  the  question,  —  strong  enough  to  forget  her- 
self, to  step  out  of  all  that  was  ordinary,  to  free  her- 
self from  every  prejudice  ?  They  were  only  preju- 
dices, she  said  to  herself,  —  how  often  had  Stephen 
told  her  so !  To  meet  him  at  the  railway,  to  drive 
with  him  to  that  good  woman's  house,  was  that  worse 
than  meeting  him  in  the  park  ?  Was  it  possible  for 
her,  was  it  honorable,  was  it  modest  even,  to  have 
any  doubts  of  Stephen  ?  No,  no,  she  had  none.  She 
would  be  as  safe  with  him  as  with  her  father,  she 
knew.  It  was  nothing  but  a  prejudice,  a  breach  of 
the  ordinary,  that  was  all.  She  wanted  orange-blos- 
soms, and  the  children  to  strew  flowers,  and  the 
church-bells  to  ring.  Oh,  yes,  she  allowed  it  all  in 
her  heart.  That  was  what  she  would  have  liked  best. 
Oh,  how  she  would  have  liked  it !  If  she  had  mar- 
ried AVitherspoon,  even,  that  was  what  would  have 


LILTS  RESOLUTION.  277 

happened  at  home.  Witherspoon !  She  trembled, 
and  grew  red  for  shame  of  herself,  who,  engaged  to 
a  gentleman,  an  officer,  should  allow  herself  to  think 
it  had  ever  been  possible  that  she  might  have  married 
Witherspoon.  The  gardener  !  while  his  master  was 
there,  pleading,  persuading,  with  that  tone  of  entreaty 
which  she  could  distinguish,  with  a  shiver,  down- 
stairs, begging  that  he  might  see  her ;  and  he  was 
her  brother-in-law,  if  he  had  only  known  it!  Oh, 
good  heavens,  her  bridegroom's  brother!  And  how 
could  she  face  him,  or  reply  to  him,  or  let  him  speak 
to  her,  in  that  dreadful  mistake  he  was  making?  No, 
no,  no  !  it  was  impossible !  There  was  only  one  thing 
to  be  done,  and  that  was  to  go  away.  It  must  be 
done  one  time  or  another ;  to-morrow  or  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  if  not  to-day.  It  must  be  done. 
Was  not  Stephen  waiting  for  her,  waiting  for  her 
telegram,  with  everything  ready  at  that  good  woman's 
house,  and  the  license  in  his  pocket  ?  It  must  be 
done  !  it  must  be  done  !  It  was  the  only  way  of 
escaping,  of  seeing  Roger  no  more,  —  poor  Roger, 
who  loved  her,  yet  must  not  love  her,  poor  fellow ! 

She  did  not  venture  to  get  up,  to  run  the  risk  of 
betraying  her  presence  in  the  upper  room  even  by  the 
creaking  of  a  board,  until  she  heard  his  voice  die  out 
underneath,  and  then  his  lingering  step  upon  the 
gravel.  She  felt  sure  —  and  her  heart  beat  louder  at 
the  thought  —  that  he  turned,  after  he  had  left  the 
door,  to  look  back  wistfully,  if  perhaps  he  might  still 
see  her  at  a  window.  Poor  Mr.  Roger!  But  she 
dared  not  meet  him ;  it  was  kinder,  far  kinder  to 
him  that  she  should  go  away. 

Presently  Lily  heard  her  mother  toiling  up  the  nar- 
row stairs.  Mrs.  Ford  came  in  panting  for  breath, 


278  THE   SECOND  SON. 

but  not  only  with  the  fatigue  of  the  climbing.  She 
had  her  apron  thrown  over  her  arm,  handy  for  wiping 
her  eyes  or  forehead,  which  was  moist  with  exhaustion 
and  trouble.  She  threw  herself  into  a  chair  with  a 
half  groan.  "  I  'd  rather  do  the  hardest  day's  work  as 
I  ever  had  in  my  life  than  do  what  I  have  been 
a-doing  now,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Lily,  Lily  !  " 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  "  asked  Lily,  though  with  a 
tremor  which  showed  how  well  aware  she  was  of  her 
mother's  meaning. 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?  It 's  this,  that  I  never  seen 
a  man  in  more  trouble  than  the  young  master.  To 
think  it  should  be  ws,  as  has  always  been  so  well 
treated,  that  has  brought  him  to  this !  And  he 
can't  believe  as  you  won't  have  nothing  to  say  to 
him,  Lily ;  and  no  more  can  I,  no  more  can  I ! " 

"  Do  you  think  a  girl  is  obliged  to  —  to  accept 
anybody  who  asks  her  ? "  cried  Lily,  trying  to  give 
her  excitement  a  color  of  indignation.  Her  eyes  shone 
feverishly  through  quick-springing  tears,  and  her  color 
changed  every  minute.  Her  agitation  and  trouble 
were  indeed  very  plain  to  see. 

"  Do  you  call  Mr.  Roger  '  anybody  '  ?  "  retorted  the 
mother  angrily.  "  Who  have  you  ever  seen  like  him  ? 
You  told  me  you  would  never  marry  if  it  was  n't 
a  gentleman,  and  where  will  you  find  a  gentleman  like 
Mr.  Roger?  And  one  that  respects  you,  like  you 
were  a  queen.  And  says  the  Squire  will  never  med- 
dle with  us,  seeing  as  he 's  put  it  all  out  on  him.  Oh, 
Lily,  the  Squire 's  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling,  all  be- 
cause of  you.  And  now  you  won't  have  him !  Oh, 
poor  young  gentleman  !  and  to  think  this  is  all  come 
to  him  through  coming  in  so  kind  to  say  a  pleasant 
word  to  your  father  and  me  !  " 


LILTS  RESOLUTION.  279 

"  Cut  him  off  with  a  —  Mother,  do  you  mean 
to  say  the  Squire  knows  ?  "  Lily's  voice  sank  into  a 
half-frightened  whisper.  Her  eyes  grew  large  with 
terror.  If  this  were  the  consequence  to  Eoger,  what 
would  happen  to  Stephen?  But  then  she  reflected, 
quick  as  a  lightning  flash,  that  Roger  was  the  eldest 
son  ;  that  no  such  penalty  would  be  likely  to  attach  to 
the  youngest ;  that  Stephen  was  an  officer,  and,  as 
she  thought  in  her  foolishness,  independent.  This 
quick  train  of  thought  reassured  her  almost  before 
the  words  were  said. 

"Knows!"  echoed  Mrs.  Ford,  with  a  tone  almost 
of  contempt.  "  What  is  there  as  the  Squire  don't 
know  ?  "  She  did  not  set  herself  up  as  equal  to  her 
daughter  in  any  other  kind  of  information ;  but  for 
this  potentate,  of  whom  her  experience  was  so  much 
greater  than  Lily's,  she  could  take  upon  herself  to 
answer.  Of  course  he  knew !  Had  he  not  discov- 
ered for  himself  what  Lily  was,  and  must  he  not  have 
divined  from  that  moment  all  that  was  happening? 
"  I  knew,"  she  added,  "  as  it  was  n't  for  naught  that 
he  came  here,  —  I  saw  it  in  his  eyes.  He  was  struck 
when  you  came  in ;  he  lost  his  senses  like.  Oh,  Lily, 
Lily  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Ford.  "  You  I  've  been  that  proud 
of!  May  be,  after  all,  it  would  ha'  been  better  for 
all  of  us  if  you  'd  been  more  like  other  poor  folks' 
children.  Oh,  my  pretty,  that  I  should  live  to  wish 
you  different,  —  me  that  have  always  been  that 
proud!" 

"You  don't  wish  me  different,  mother,  whatever 
happens,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  sudden  melting  of 
the  heart,  throwing  her  arms  for  a  moment  round 
the  homely  woman,  and  kissing  fervently  her  bowed 
head.  But  Lily  had  disengaged  herself  from  this 


280  THE  SECOND  SON. 

rapid  embrace  before  her  mother,  surprised  by  the 
sudden  warmth,  could  return  it ;  and  when  Mrs. 
Ford  turned  round  to  give  back  the  kiss,  Lily  had 
already  begun  to  arrange  some  small  articles,  collars 
and  cuffs,  which  were  laid  out  on  her  drawers,  and 
was  saying  over  her  shoulder,  in  a  voice  which  had 
a  strained  tone  of  levity,  "  It 's  far  better  for  Mr. 
Roger  that  I  should  have  nothing  to  say  to  him,  in 
that  case,  mother,  —  better  for  both  him  and  me. 
For  the  Squire  will  have  him  back  when  he  hears 
it  has  all  come  to  nothing.  And  what  could  we  do 
with  a  shilling  ?  We  could  n't  live  upon  that." 

"  Oh,  Lily,  you  have  always  the  best  of  sense,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Ford.  "  I  never  took  that  view.  But, 
dear,  you  '11  have  to  see  him  when  he  comes  again. 
I  've  done  my  best  for  you,  but  I  can't  take  it  upon 
me  no  more." 

"  When  he  comes  again !  Is  he  coming  again  ? 
Oh,  mother!" 

"  How  could  I  help  it,  Lily  ?  He  would  n't  take 
his  answer,  was  it  likely,  from  me." 

"  Then,  mother,"  cried  Lily,  —  she  spoke  with  her 
head  bent  over  her  little  collars,  counting  them,  Mrs. 
Ford  thought,  to  see  that  they  were  all  right  after  the 
wash,  —  "  then,  mother  "  —  Her  breath  came  quick, 
but  that  was  very  natural,  disturbed  as  she  had  been  ; 
and  she  made  a  pause  before  saying  any  more.  "  I 
think  I  must  go  out  and  stay  —  about  the  park  —  till 
night.  I  cannot,  oh,  I  cannot  see  Mr.  Roger !  It 
would  make  me  ill  to  see  him ;  and  what  would  be 
the  use  ?  I  will  take  a  piece  of  cake  for  my  dinner, 
and  go  up  into  the  wood,  and  come  home  with  father. 
And  then  you  can  tell  him  you  don't  know  where  I 
am,  —  and  it  will  be  quite  true." 


LILY'S  RESOLUTION.  281 

"  Oh,  Lily,  I  have  said  that  already,  —  that  I  did  n't 
know  where  you  were.  It  was  true  enough,  .for  I 
did  n't  know  if  you  were  here,  or  in  my  room,  or  in 
the  loft,  or  where  you  were.  But  if  I  say  it  again  — 
and  him  looking  that  anxious  in  my  face  "  — 

"  It  will  be  truer  than  ever,  mother,"  said  Lily. 
She  turned  again  to  Mrs.  Ford,  and  put  her  arms, 
which  trembled,  round  her,  and  leaned  her  head  upon 
her  mother's  breast.  "  Oh,  mother,"  she  cried,  "  I 
know  it 's  hard  upon  you,  I  know  it  is  ;  but  only  have 
patience  just  a  very  little,  and  everything  will  come 
right.  I  know  it  will  all  come  right.  Only  have  patience 
a  little,  and  don't  be  vexed  with  me,  mother  dear." 

"  Vexed  with  you,  my  pretty !  "  cried  Mrs.  Ford, 
hugging  her  child.  "  Since  ever  you  were  born,  Lily, 
you  've  been  the  pride  of  my  heart ;  and  I  would  n't 
have  you  different,  not  a  bit  different,  whatever  was  to 
happen  to  me.  There,  bless  you,  child,  don't  cry : 
and  I  '11  go  and  cut  you  a  nice  bit  of  cake,  and  put 
some  apples  in  the  basket,  and  you  '11  come  home  with 
your  father  ;  and  I  '11  never  say  another  word  about 
Mr.  Roger,  poor  young  gentleman,  though  it  do  go  to 
my  heart." 

She  went  quickly  away  down -stairs,  not  trusting 
herself  to  say  another  word,  lest  she  should  enter  again 
upon  the  forbidden  subject.  Lily,  with  hands  that 
trembled,  lifted  her  hat  from  its  box.  She  selected 
her  best  hat,  and  a  pretty  little  cloth  jacket  which 
had  been  purchased  for  Sundays  ;  but  such  extrava- 
gance was  not  unusual  with  Lily,  who  took  very  good 
care  of  her  clothes,  though  she  did  not  always  keep 
them  for  best.  Perhaps  this  was  one  reason  why  she 
ran  out  so  quickly,  taking  the  little  basket  hurriedly 
from  Mrs.  Ford's  hand,  that  her  mother  might  not 


282  THE   SECOND   SON. 

remark  upon  her  dress.  And  she  left  her  collars  lying 
about,  not  put  neatly  into  the  drawer,  as  was  her  wont. 
Mrs.  Ford  put  them  away  very  carefully  afterwards, 
wondering  a  little  at  Lily's  carelessness ;  but  indeed 
it  was  no  wonder,  poor  child,  in  the  circumstances, 
that  she  should  be  put  out  of  her  usual  tidy  way. 


XXVI. 

AT   THE   RAILWAY   STATION. 

ROGER  arrived  in  London  in  the  evening,  before  it 
was  dark.  He  had  not  had  a  cheerful  journey.  The 
fact  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  see  Lily,  and  that 
her  mother  had  a  second  time  defended  her  doors 
against  him,  and  with  flushed  cheeks  and  troubled 
eyes  had  repeated  once  more  that  Lily  was  out,  that 
she  could  not  tell  where  she  was,  had  disturbed  him 
in  his  convictions.  It  had  seemed  so  certain,  so  self- 
evident,  that  his  suit  must  be  acceptable  to  the  game- 
keeper's daughter  ;  was  it  possible  that  Lily  was  not 
of  that  opinion,  that  she  loved  some  one  else,  that 
after  all  somebody  in  her  own  class  had  secured  her 
affections  ?  The  idea  made  Roger's  blood  boil ;  but 
when  he  thought  again  he  said  to  himself,  No,  no. 
She  could  never  give  herself  to  a  man  of  her  father's 
class  ;  it  was  impossible,  it  could  not  be ;  and  who 
could  she  have  seen  whom  it  was  possible  to  reckon 
with  as  rivaling  himself  ?  Roger  was  not  vain,  espe- 
cially now  when  his  heart  was  so  profoundly  touched. 
At  the  best,  he  had  scarcely  expected  her  to  love  him 
as  he  loved  her.  But  that  she  should  shrink  and  fly 
from  him  was  incredible.  It  could  be  only  what  her 
mother  said :  that  to  find  herself  the  cause  of  so 
much  disturbance  had  overwhelmed  her  delicate  spirit. 
Sweet  Lily,  pure  flower  of  nature,  moved  by  all  the 
most  generous  emotions !  A  girl  who  had  been  brought 


284  THE  SECOND  SON. 

up  in  the  world  would  have  liked  the  commotion.  She 
would  have  thought  of  nobody  but  herself  in  the  mat- 
ter. But  Lily  held  her  own  happiness  at  arm's-length, 
trembling  for  it  lest  it  should  hurt  some  one  else. 
This  conception  of  her  sweetened  his  thoughts,  which 
were  not  bright,  as  he  went  away.  He  told  her  mo- 
ther that  he  would  write,  explaining  everything,  and 
that  Lily  must  reply  to  him  sincerely,  truly,  without 
thought  of  any  secondary  matter.  "  You  shall  not  be 
disturbed ;  I  will  take  care  of  you,"  he  repeated, 
though  he  did  not  know  how  he  was  to  do  so.  And 
thus  unsatisfied,  unhappy,  he  had  gone  away. 

It  seemed  to  Roger  that  at  the  junction,  where  there 
was  a  change  of  carriages  for  some  of  the  humbler 
travelers,  he  saw  for  a  moment  among  the  changing 
groups  a  figure  which  reminded  him  of  Lily ;  and  he 
started  from  his  corner  to  follow  it  with  his  eyes. 
But  he  knew  the  idea  was  absurd  even  as  it  flashed 
through  his  mind.  It  was  only  that  he  had  Lily  on 
his  heart,  on  his  brain,  in  his  every  thought,  and  dis- 
covered resemblances  to  her,  visions  of  her,  wherever 
he  turned ;  he  knew  that  nothing  could  be  more  ridic- 
ulous than  the  thought  that  Lily  was  traveling  to 
London  or  anywhere  else,  alone.  It  was  only  a  de- 
lusion of  his  preoccupied  heart. 

The  yellow  flame  of  the  lamps,  newly  lighted,  was 
shining  against  the  dim  blue  of  the  evening,  when  he 
reached  the  big  railway  station,  crowded  and  echoing 
with  voices  and  commotion.  He  had  just  got  his  bags 
and  coats  out  of  the  carriage  he  had  occupied,  and 
flung  them  into  the  arms  of  the  waiting  porter,  when 
he  was  suddenly  startled  by  the  appearance  of  another 
very  familiar  image,  almost  as  unlikely  in  such  a  place 
as  that  of  Lily.  The  sight  of  his  brother  Stephen 


AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION.  285 

was  not  habitually  a  pleasure  to  Roger ;  but  there  was 
something  in  his  own  forlornness,  in  his  sense  of  sev- 
erance from  all  his  former  life,  which  disposed  him 
towards  his  own  flesh  and  blood  ;  and  a  wild  idea  that 
Stephen  might  have  heard  what  had  happened,  and 
might  have  come  to  meet  him,  to  show  him  a  little 
sympathy,  though  they  were  not  usually  great  friends, 
suggested  itself  in  the  heat  of  the  moment.  He 
turned  round  abruptly,  straight  in  his  brother's  way, 
and  held  out  his  hand.  "  You  've  come  to  meet  me, 
Steve?  How  kind  of  you  !  "  he  cried. 

Stephen  had  been  going  slowly  along  looking  into 
the  carriages,  as  if  searching  for  some  one.  He 
stopped  and  stared,  not  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  found  the  person  he  was  seeking,  but  astonished 
at  the  sudden  grasp  of  his  hand  and  claim  upon  him. 
"  You  here !  "  he  cried,  with  a  look  of  wonder  and 
discomfiture  ;  and  then  he  laughed,  getting  free  of 
Roger's  hand.  "No,  indeed,"  he  said,  "I  didn't 
come  to  meet  you.  How  should  I  ?  I  did  n't  know 
you  were  coming.  I  thought  you  were  at  home." 

"  I  have  left  home.  Steve,  1  have  a  great  deal  to 
tell  you.  There  are  things  you  ought  to  know.  It 
may  affect  you,  too,"  added  Roger,  pausing,  with  a 
new  thought.  "  Jump  into  the  cab  with  me ;  don't 
leave  me  now  we  've  met.  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
say." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  answered  Stephen,  "  I  'm  very 
sorry ;  but  I  've  got  half  a  dozen  engagements.  I  've 
come  here  to  meet  —  one  of  our  fellows,  don't  you 
know.  I  can't  possibly  spare  you  a  moment  to-night. 
You  're  at  the  old  place,  I  suppose  ?  Well,  good-by. 
I  '11  soon  look  you  up." 

"  Stay  a  moment ;  none  of  your  fellows  can  be  so 


286  THE   SECOND   SON. 

important  as  this,"  said  Roger,  with  his  hand  upon 
his  brother's  arm. 

A  smile  of  conscious  triumph  came  over  Stephen's 
face;  he  shook  off  Roger's  hand  and  turned  away, 
kissing  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  "  Ta-ta.  I  '11  look 
you  up  very  soon,"  he  cried,  disappearing  in  the 
crowd.  Roger  divined  the  meaning  of  that  triumph- 
ant smile.  He  looked  after  his  brother  for  a  moment, 
with  a  sense  that  Stephen's  rendezvous,  whatever  it 
was,  was  an  offense  to  his  own  trouble  and  to  the 
cause  of  that  trouble,  —  a  sin  against  love.  The 
train  was  long  and  the  platform  crowded.  Stephen 
and  the  person,  whoever  it  was  whom  Stephen  had 
come  to  meet,  were  lost  in  the  groups  of  moving 
figures,  indistinguishable,  a  continually  shifting  and 
re-forming  crowd,  under  the  mingled  light  of  the 
yellow  lamps  and  the  waning  day.  Roger  saw  the 
pale  sky  at  the  end  of  a  long  vista,  the  lights,  more 
perplexing  than  illuminating,  in  a  row  above,  the  dim, 
long,  crowded  line  of  moving  figures  below.  And 
then,  with  a  sigh,  half  of  disappointment,  half  of  a 
vague  and  troubled  foreboding,  he  turned  to  get  into 
the  cab,  which  was  already  laden  with  his  traveling- 
gear.  A  curious  fancy  to  wait  and  see  who  it  was 
whom  Stephen  had  come  to  meet  crossed  his  mind, 
one  of  those  sudden,  vague  fancies  which  blow  about 
through  a  man's  consciousness  without  any  will  of 
his  own.  He  pulled  himself  up  with  an  indignant 
return  upon  himself.  What,  wait  and  spy  upon  his 
brother !  Of  all  things,  that  was  the  last.  The  little 
self  argument  passed  in  a  second,  scarcely  so  long  as 
it  took  to  transfer  to  the  porter,  who  stood  waiting  to 
know  what  address  he  was  to  give  the  cabman,  the 
sixpence  in  Roger's  hand,  —  and  it  never  really  was 


AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION.  287 

a  question  at  all.  That  he  should  watch  Stephen  and 
find  out  who  it  was  he  met  was  as  impossible  as  to 
catch  the  first  passer-by  by  the  throat  and  rob  him. 
And  yet,  if  that  impossible  thought  had  been  carried 
out,  —  if  he  had  but  done  it,  this  impossible  thing ! 

Roger  went  off  to  his  chambers,  the  rooms  which 
had  scarcely  yet  begun  to  show  the  emptiness  of  rooms 
uninhabited.  The  invitation  cards  which  he  had 
taken  down  from  the  glass  still  lay  together  in  a  little 
bundle  on  the  mantel-shelf.  How  few  hours  it  was 
since  he  had  left  them,  still  all  uncertain,  not  knowing 
what  turn  his  fate  was  to  take !  Now  it  was  all  set- 
tled, beyond  the  reach  of  further  change.  The  state 
of  mind  in  which  he  was  when  he  left  this  place, 
not  much  more  than  twenty-four  hours  before,  was 
now  almost  incredible  to  him.  He  scarcely  under- 
stood how  it  could  have  been.  From  the  beginning 
of  time  it  must  have  been  clear  that  only  in  one  way, 
only  in  this  way,  could  he  have  acted.  Doubt  on  the 
subject  was  an  offense  to  him  as  he  now  saw  it,  and 
all  the  efforts  that  had  been  made  to  turn  him  from 
his  purpose  were  as  wrong  as  they  were  vain.  He 
thought  of  Edmund's  action,  his  persuasions,  the  jour- 
ney they  had  made  together,  in  which  his  brother  had 
been  his  slave,  — a  slave  to  all  his  caprices,  while  be- 
lieving that  he  was  the  guide,  weaning  Roger  from 
those  plans  which  never  could  have  been  doubtful  for 
a  moment,  which  now  were  fixed  beyond  all  recall. 
Poor  Edmund,  always  so  well  intentioned,  so  well 
meaning ! 

Roger  sat  gazing  at  the  light  of  his  solitary  lamp, 
and  wondered  within  himself  what  Edmund  would 
do.  Would  he  accept,  after  all,  the  reversion  of  the 
heirship,  and  become  in  time  the  proprietor  of  Mel- 


288  THE   SECOND  SON. 

combe  ?  Why  should  he  not  accept  it  ?  Since  it  was 
no  longer  Roger's,  how  much  better  it  should  be  Ed- 
mund's, so  good  a  fellow  as  he  was,  —  the  best  of 
them,  much  the  best !  He  paused  here  for  a  moment 
to  wonder  over  again,  or  rather  to  be  conscious  of  an 
impulse  of  wonder  floating  across  his  mind,  as  to  who 
it  was  Stephen  was  going  to  meet  —  but  dismissed 
this  absurd,  insignificant  question,  and  returned  to 
Edmund.  It  would  be  by  far  the  best  thing  that 
Edmund  should  accept,  and  marry  Elizabeth  Travers, 
and  bring  her  home  to  Melcoinbe.  A  smile  came  over 
Roger's  face  as  he  sat  thinking,  —  a  smile  altogether 
sweet  and  tender,  with  perhaps  a  touch  of  melancholy, 
as  there  always  is  in  such  tender  thoughts.  Where 
could  there  be  a  better  pair  ?  They  would  make  the 
house  delightful ;  not  like  anything  Roger  had  ever 
known  in  it,'  but  far  better,  purer,  more  elevated,  a 
home  of  love  and  kindness.  Yes,  that  was  how  it 
must  be  :  Edmund  and  Elizabeth  must  marry,  and 
live  happily  ever  after,  like  the  lovers  in  a  fairy  tale ; 
"  While  I  and  Lily,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  Lily  and  I  " 
—  with  his  smile  softening  more  and  more  into  a 
melancholy,  profounder,  sweeter,  than  any  sentiment 
he  had  ever  been  conscious  of  in  his  life.  Lily  and 
he  would  not  make  a  home  like  that  at  Melcoinbe. 
He  did  not  anticipate  any  centre  of  life,  any  new 
world  beginning,  in  that  fated  union,  which  was  like 
one  of  the  old  tragic  expedients  of  destiny  in  the 
Greek  plays,  he  thought,  —  a  thing  that  had  to  be, 
that  no  human  effort  could  disturb.  He  smiled  over 
it  with  a  pathetic  consciousness  that  it  might  not  be 
what  people  call  happy,  —  not  like  that  other  mar- 
riage, like  Edmund  and  Elizabeth  ;  not  happy  in  that 
way,  —  no,  nor  of  that  kind. 


AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION.  289 

He  returned  with  pleasure  from  the  too  penetrating 
thought  of  his  own  fate  to  think  of  these  two,  largely 
administering  an  ample  household,  a  shelter  from  the 
storms  outside,  an  ever  noble,  tranquil  centre  of  life. 
His  smile  grew  with  his  consciousness  into  a  half 
laugh,  in  which  amusement  mingled.  Ned  would  fight 
against  it,  he  would  not  see  his  way,  he  would  think  it 
was  robbing  his  brother,  —  old  Ned !  the  best  fellow 
that  ever  was  ;  in  love  with  Lizzy  Travers  all  this 
time,  but  never  owning  it,  never  letting  himself  think 
of  it,  in  case  he  might  come  in  Roger's  way.  But  in 
the  end  Edmund  must  hear  reason,  —  he  must  see 
that  this  was  the  most  desirable  thing  that  could  hap- 
pen. Roger  drew  his  writing  things  towards  him, 
and  began  at  once  to  write  to  his  brother,  setting  all 
these  arguments  before  him.  There  must  be  no  mis- 
take upon  the  subject ;  Ned  must  do  it,  if  it  were  but 
for  Roger's  sake. 

After  writing  this  letter  he  sat  motionless  for  some 
time,  staring  vacantly  at  the  flame  of  his  lamp.  Then 
he  took  up  the  pen  again,  and  began  another  letter, 
his  great  letter,  his  explanation  to  Lily.  He  wrote  to 
her  as  to  one  whom  he  regarded  with  a  kind  of  wor- 
ship, reverent  of  all  her  ignorances  and  innocences, 
yet  as  one  who  belonged  to  him,  between  whom  and 
himself  there  could  be  no  obstacles  that  were  not  im- 
aginary, to  be  surmounted  at  their  pleasure.  She  had 
to  understand  this  at  the  outset,  —  that  she  was  his, 
that  he  would  hear  of  no  objections.  He  had  en- 
countered for  her  everything  a  man  can  encounter  for 
the  woman  he  loves.  It  was  done,  and  there  could  be 
no  further  question.  Family  and  fortune  he  had  put 
away  for  her ;  it  only  remained  that  she  should  put 
away  her  hesitations,  her  anxieties  for  her  father  (who 


290  THE  SECOND  SON. 

should  not  suffer,  he  promised  her),  her  fears  and 
diffidences  for  him,  —  a  matter  so  easy,  and  yet  all 
that  was  wanted  to  make  everything  clear. 

It  was  very  late  when  he  concluded  the  letter,  or 
rather  early  in  the  May  morning,  the  solemn  hour 
which  is  at  once  the  dead  of  night  and  the  approach 
of  day.  As  he  sealed  the  envelope  there  came  over 
him  again  that  insistent  yet  altogether  irrelevant  ques- 
tion,— Who  was  it  whom  Stephen  was  hurrying  to 
meet,  with  that  smile  of  triumph  on  his  face?  He 
shook  it  from  him  indignantly,  not  knowing  by  what 
mechanical  freak  of  fancy  it  should  come  back  thus, 
again  and  again.  What  did  it  matter  who  it  was  ? 
Some  of  Stephen's  banal  loves,  a  vulgar  adventure, 
perhaps  some  one  of  whom  it  was  a  shame  to  think, 
while  the  air  was  still  softly  echoing  with  Lily's  name. 
If  he  had  but  known  I 


XXVII. 

IN    THE     TOILS. 

LILY'S  heart  was  in  her  mouth,  as  people  say,  —  it 
was  fluttering  like  a  bird.  She  stepped  out,  stumbled 
out,  of  the  railway  carriage,  among  the  crowd,  looking 
wildly  about  her,  feeling  herself  for  the  moment  lost. 
She  had  never  encountered  such  a  crowd  before.  She 
felt  herself  disappear  in  it,  among  the  people  who  were 
running  about  after  their  luggage,  and  those  who  were 
calling  cabs,  and  the  porters  pushing  through  the 
throng  with  big  boxes  on  their  shoulders.  Lily  felt 
herself  lost,  as  if,  whoever  might  be  looking  for  her, 
she  should  never  be  found  any  more.  It  had  not  oc- 
curred to  her  to  prepare  for  the  risk  of  not  meeting 
her  lover.  She  was  quite  unaware  where  to  go,  what 
to  do.  She  had  never  been  in  London  before,  nor  in 
a  crowd,  nor  left  to  herself  to  push  her  way.  She 
was  as  much  disconcerted  at  finding  herself  alone  as 
if  she  had  been  a  duke's  daughter  instead  of  a  game- 
keeper's ;  and  the  noise  and  the  bustle  frightened  her. 
She  looked  round  helplessly,  wistfully,  putting  up  the 
veil  which  she  had  kept  over  her  face  during  the  whole 
journey.  No  one  was  likely  to  recognize  her  here,  — 
no  one  except  him  for  whom  she  was  looking,  who 
had  not  come.  Had  he  not  come  ?  Was  it  possible 
that  some  accident  could  have  happened,  and  that  he 
was  not  here  ? 

Lily  had  some  ten  minutes  of  this  panic  and  misery. 


292  THE  SECOND  SOX. 

It  was  the  first  thing  that  had  gone  wrong  with  her ; 
all  the  previous  part  of  the  journey  had  seemed  so 
easy.  She  had  walked  to  the  junction,  from  whence, 
as  had  been  arranged  between  them,  the  telegram  was 
to  be  sent,  and  thus  avoided  all  curious  eyes  at  the 
little  Melcombe  station ;  and  she  had  been  lucky 
enough  to  find  a  second-class  carriage  empty,  where 
she  was  left  undisturbed  all  the  way.  She  had  not 
the  least  idea  that  Roger  was  in  the  same  train :  no- 
body had  come  near  her  except  the  guard,  and  she  had 
seen  no  familiar  face  ;  all  had  gone  perfectly  well  till 
now.  Her  heart  beat,  indeed,  with  a  wildly  quick- 
ened movement  whenever  she  allowed  herself  to  think. 
But  Lily  had  enough  perception  of  the  necessity  of 
self-command  to  avoid  thinking  as  much  as  was  pos- 
sible, and  to  concentrate  her  mind  upon  the  happy 
meeting  at  the  end  of  this  exciting  journey.  She  fig- 
ured to  herself  Stephen  appearing  at  the  carriage  win- 
dow almost  before  the  train  stopped,  and  how  in  a 
moment  all  anxiety  of  hers,  all  need  to  act  or  decide 
for  herself,  would  be  over.  She  had  nothing  in  the 
shape  of  luggage  except  the  little  basket  in  which  her 
mother  had  put  the  luncheon,  the  slice  of  cake  and 
apples,  which  she  had  been  glad  enough  to  have  before 
the  long  afternoon  was  over.  Lily  had  slipped  into 
this  basket  a  very  small  bundle  of  necessaries,  which 
were  all  she  had  brought  with  her.  She  held  it  tightly 
in  her  hand  as  she  got  out,  bewildered  by  the  arrival, 
by  the  jar  of  the  stopping,  by  the  dreadful  sensation 
of  finding  herself  there  alone  among  the  crowd.  She 
did  not  know  how  long  she  stood,  pushed  about  by  the 
other  travelers,  who  knew  where  they  were  going,  who 
had  nothing  to  wait  for ;  but  it  was  long  enough  to 
feel  herself  forsaken,  lost,  and  to  realize  what  it  would 


IN   THE    TOILS.  293 

be  to  have  nowhere  to  go  to,  to  be  thrown  upon  her 
own  resources  in  this  horrible  great,  strange,  noisy 
place.  Then  in  a  moment  Lily's  heart  gave  a  wild 
leap,  and  she  knew  it  was  not  to  be  so. 

But  the  first  sensation  of  the  meeting  was  not  alto- 
gether sweet.  Instead  of  Stephen's  face  at  the  win- 
dow, ready,  waiting  to  receive  her  according  to  her 
dream,  what  really  did  happen  was  that  Lily  felt  her- 
self suddenly  surrounded  by  an  arm  which  drew  her 
close,  and  felt  a  hot  breath  upon  her  cheek,  and  a  "  Here 
you  are  at  last,  little  one  !  "  which  jarred  upon  her  al- 
most as  much  as  it  relieved  her.  In  the  railway  sta- 
tion, among  all  these  crowds  !  She  started  out  of  his 
embrace,  freed  herself,  and  threw  a  hurried  glance 
upon  the  bystanders  with  instinctive  terror  almost  be- 
fore she  looked  at  him.  "  Oh,  Stephen !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, with  a  little  cry  of  reproach. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  he  replied  ;  "  nobody  knows 
us  here,  you  little  goose.  I  might  take  you  up  in  my 
arms  and  carry  you  off,  —  nobody  would  mind.  And 
so  here  you  are,  Lil,  my  pet ;  really  here  at  last." 

She  put  her  arm  timidly  through  his.  "  Oh,  Ste- 
phen, I  thought  I  should  never  find  you  !  And  what 
should  I  have  done !  " 

"It  was  not  my  fault,"  he  declared.  "Where  is 
your  luggage  ?  Oh,  to  be  sure,  you  have  n't  got  any 
luggage!  "  He  stopped  to  laugh  at  this,  as  if  it 
amused  him  very  much,  but  pressed  her  arm  close  to 
his  side  all  the  time  with  a  sort  of  hug,  which  consoled 
though  it  half  frightened  Lily.  "  Why,  how  are  you 
to  get  on  for  to-night  ?  "  he  went  on,  still  with  that 
laugh.  "  Must  we  stop  at  a  shop  somewhere  and  buy 
you  things  for  to-night  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  don't !  "  said  Lily,  with  a  pang  of 
wounded  pride. 


294  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"Don't?  What?  Talk  of  your  things,  or  about 
what  you'll  want?  WeU,  well,  we  '11  leave  all  that 
till  to-morrow."  His  laugh,  why  should  it  have  of- 
fended Lily  ?  It  had  never  done  so  before.  "  Here 's 
our  cab,"  he  said,  leading  her  out  of  the  noise  of  the 
station.  Lily's  heart  beat  so  that  it  made  her  faint, 
as  he  put  her  into  the  hansom,  and  took  his  place  be- 
side her,  so  close,  with  again  that  sweep  of  his  arm 
round  her,  which  seemed  to  offend  her  too,  though  she 
could  not  tell  why,  —  she  had  no  right  to  be  offended 
by  that  clasp.  He  had  held  her  in  his  arms  in  the 
park,  when  they  met  there,  with  not  a  creature  near, 
and  she  had  not  been  offended  :  why  should  she  be  so 
now,  or  find  fault  with  the  man  who  was  to  be  her 
husband  to-morrow,  for  his  fondness  ?  She  drew  her- 
self away  a  little,  as  much  as  was  possible  ;  but  she  re- 
strained the  protest  that  rose  to  her  lips,  though  her 
heart  fluttered  and  beat,  and  all  her  pulses  seemed  to 
clang  in  her  ears,  with  an  excitement  which  had  pain 
in  it  and  trouble,  not  the  sensation  of  safety  and  pro- 
tection and  shelter  for  which  she  had  hoped. 

"  Fancy  what  made  me  late,"  Stephen  said ;  "  it  was 
not  my  fault.  As  I  came  hurrying  along,  looking  out 
for  my  little  Lil,  whom  do  you  suppose  I  saw  jumping 
out  of  a  carriage  ?  —  and  he  saw  me  too,  worse  luck, 
and  thought,  the  fool,  I  had  come  to  meet  him.  You 
could  n't  guess  if  you  were  to  try  till  Christmas. 
Why,  Lily,  my  pet,  my  brother  Roger!  Think  what 
a  fright  I  was  in  for  a  moment :  for  though  you  never 
would  own  to  it,  /  know  he  was  always  hanging  about 
the  place ;  and  if  you  could  have  had  the  eldest  son, 
my  little  Lil,  I  dare  say  you  'd  never  have  thought 
twice  of  me." 

"  Oh,  Stephen !  "  she  cried,  with  a  choking  sensation 


IN  THE   TOILS.  295 

in  her  throat.  "  Oh,  don't,  don't."  He  held  her 
close  as  in  a  vise,  and  laughed,  and  delivered  these  re- 
marks with  his  lips  close  to  her  cheek.  He  was  ex< 
cited,  too,  but  the  banter  which  had  appeared  to  her 
so  sprightly  and  delightful  at  Melcombe  seemed  at  this 
tremendous  moment  so  out  of  place,  so  dreadful  to 
listen  to.  And  then  Roger  I  —  if  he  but  knew  ! 

"  Yes,  —  you  did  n't  know  he  was  in  the  same  train, 
did  you?  Had  he  turned  up  a  little  sooner,  you  'd 
have  thrown  me  off  at  the  last  moment,  would  n't  you, 
Lil  ?  But  Roger  is  one  of  the  prudent  ones,  my  dear. 
No  chance  for  you  there.  Catch  him  offending  the 
Pater  and  losing  his  chances  for  all  the  girls  in  the 
world  !  He  is  not  that  sort.  He  is  not  a  fool  in  love, 
like  me !  " 

"Please,  Stephen!  Oh,  please,  Stephen!"  Oh, 
to  hear  all  that  of  Mr.  Roger,  who  had  said  such 
beautiful  things  to  her,  who  had  suffered  she  knew  not 
what  for  her,  who  had  come  boldly  and  told  her 
mother  that  he  wanted  Lily  for  his  wife  !  All  at  once 
there  sprang  up  in  Lily's  frightened  soul  a  conscious- 
ness that  she  dared  not  say  this  to  Stephen,  as  things 
now  were.  She  had  been  very  bold  with  him,  and  said 
what  she  pleased,  while  she  had  her  home  within  reach 
and  had  still  f idl  power  over  herself.  But  now  every- 
thing seemed  changed  :  now  that  she  was  at  the  height 
of  all  her  dreams  had  pointed  to,  on  the  eve  of  her 
wedding-day,  about  to  marry  a  gentleman,  — and  not 
a  gentleman  only,  but  a  splendid  officer,  the  flower  of 
the  world;  now  that  she  was  about  to  step  into  an- 
other sphere,  to  leave  her  own  humbleness  and  obscur- 
ity behind  forever —  Confusedly  Lily  was  conscious 
of  all  this  grandeur  shining  before  her,  —  only  one 
other  step  to  be  taken,  only  a  few  hours  to  pass :  but 


296  THE   SECOND  SON. 

still  more  certainly  she  became  aware  that  her  lover 
terrified  her  beyond  description,  and  that  in  a  moment 
there  had  rolled  up  between  them  a  crowd  of  things 
which  she  dared  not  speak  of,  nor  allude  to,  and  those 
the  very  things  which  she  most  wished  to  say. 

It  was  a  relief  to  her  when  the  cab  stopped,  in  a 
quiet  street,  with  not  many  lamps  and  scarcely  any 
one  about,  —  a  street  of  houses  with  little  gardens  in 
front  of  them,  narrow  London  inclosures,  with  a  tiny 
tree  or  bush  in  the  centre  of  a  space  no  bigger  than  a 
table.  But  it  was  very  quiet,  and  Lily  felt  a  throb  of 
satisfaction,  hoping  to  see  the  good  woman,  the  faith- 
ful creature  who  was  to  protect  her  and  be  a  mother 
to  her  until  to-morrow.  She  longed  for  the  sight  of 
this  woman  as  she  had  never  longed  for  anything  in 
her  life.  But  no  woman  appeared ;  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  man,  and  Stephen  led  the  way  up  to  a 
room  on  the  first  floor,  where  there  were  lights  and  a 
table  was  laid.  The  room  looked  fine  to  Lily's  in- 
experienced eyes  :  there  were  flowers  about,  plants  in 
pots,  and  huge  bouquets  in  vases ;  and  the  table  was 
pretty,  with  its  dazzling  white  cover,  and  the  glass 
and  silver  that  shone  under  the  candles  with  their 
pink  shades.  All  these  details  caught  her  eye  even 
in  this  moment  of  troubled  emotion,  and  gave  her 
a  thrill  of  pleasure,  as  signs  and  tokens  of  the  new 
world  into  which  she  was  taking  her  first  step.  The 
man,  whether  servant  or  master  of  the  house,  who  had 
followed  them  up-stairs,  opened  a  door  into  a  room 
beyond,  which  Lily  saw  was  a  bedroom.  She  took 
refuge  hastily  in  this  room,  half  because  she  seemed 
to  be  expected  to  do  so,  half  that  she  might  be  alone 
for  the  moment  and  able  to  think. 

There  were  candles  lighted  upon  the  toilet  table, 


IN   THE    TOILS.  297 

and  an  air  of  preparation,  something  of  the  ordinary 
and  natural  in  the  midst  of  all  the  horrible  strange- 
ness of  her  circumstances,  which  consoled  her  a  little. 
She  sank  down  upon  a  chair,  to  recover  her  breath 
and  her  composure,  saying  to  herself  that  it  was  very 
foolish,  even  wicked,  to  be  so  full  of  nervousness  and 
doubts  and  fears  ;  that  having  come  so  far,  and  having 
done  it  deliberately  of  her  own  free  will,  she  could 
not,  must  not,  give  way  to  any  imaginary  terrors. 
She  might  have  known  it  would  be  terrible,  this  in- 
terval, —  she  might  have  known !  and  where  was  the 
good  woman,  the  kind  woman,  whom  Stephen  had  as- 
sured her  she  should  find  waiting  ?  Then  she  recalled 
herself  with  a  pang  at  her  heart.  How  could  she 
even  ask  for  this  woman,  as  if  she  had  no  confidence 
in  the  man  who  would  be  her  husband  to-morrow? 
To-morrow,  —  only  to-morrow,  —  it  was  not  very  long 
to  wait.  This  panic  was  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  excite- 
ment of  her  nerves,  a  weakness  such  as  women  were 
so  apt  to  have  in  novels.  Lily  had  never  known  be- 
fore what  unreasonable  nerves  were.  She  took  off  her 
hat,  which  relieved  her  throbbing  head  for  a  moment. 
But  when  she  caught  sight  of  herself  in  the  glass,  her 
pale,  scared  face  frightened  her  as  if  it  had  been  a 
head  of  Medusa.  She  turned  away  from  that  revela- 
tion of  her  own  instinctive  alarms  with  a  fresh  access 
of  terror  ;  her  hands  trembled  as  she  put  them  up  to 
smooth  her  hair.  The  table  was  arranged  with  pretty 
brushes,  ivory- backed,  and  every  kind  of  pretty  thing, 
such  as  Lily  had  heard  of,  but  never  seen  before. 
They  had  all  been  put  there  for  her,  she  tried  to  say 
to  herself,  all  arranged  for  her  gratification,  and  she 
so  ungrateful !  But  she  could  not  use  them.  She 
smoothed  her  hair  tremulously  with  her  hands.  Oh, 


298  THE   SECOND   SON. 

where  was  the  woman,  the  kind  woman,  whose  pres- 
ence would  give  her  a  little  courage  ?  Where  was 
she? 

"I  say,  Lil,  look  here,"  cried  Stephen,  rattling 
loudly  at  the  door.  "  Don't  be  long  about  your  toi- 
let ;  dinner 's  just  coming."  Then  he  opened  the  door 
and  half  came  in.  "  You  want  a  lady's-maid,  —  that 's 
what  you  want.  Not  used,  eh,  to  managing  for  your- 
self, my  dear  ?  "  His  laugh  seemed  to  fill  the  house 
with  horrible  echoes.  "  Can't  I  fasten  something  or 
undo  something  ?  Here,  Lil,  you  '11  find  me  very 
handy,"  he  said,  advancing  to  her,  his  large  masculine 
presence  filling  the  room,  exhausting  the  atmosphere, 
affecting  the  frightened  girl  with  a  passion  of  terror 
which  was  almost  more  than  she  could  contain. 

"Oh,  please!"  she  said,  her  breath  coming  quick, 
"  I  shall  be  ready  —  in  a  moment  —  in  —  in  five  min- 
utes :  oh,  go  away,  please.  If  you  would  send  the 
woman,  the  woman  "  — 

"  What  woman  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  stare  ;  then 
laughing,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  !  The  woman,  eh  ? 
A  faithful  old  servant,  was  n't  she  ?  Yes  ;  well,  she  's 
looking  after  the  dinner,  I  suppose ;  but  no  doubt 
there  's  a  drudge  of  some  kind,  if  you  must  have  her. 
You  must  n't  be  silly,  my  pretty  Lil.  You  must 
make  the  best  of  your  bargain,  you  know.  Come, 
can't  I  do?" 

"  Oh,  if  I  may  have  the  woman  —  only  for  a  mo- 
ment —  only  for  five  minutes  !  " 

"  Well,  don't  work  yourself  into  a  fever,"  he  said. 
"  And  mind  you  don't  keep  the  dinner  waiting,  for 
I  'm  as  hungry  as  a  hunter,"  he  added,  looking  back 
from  the  door. 

Lily  stood  trembling  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 


7iV   THE    TOILS.  299 

with  her  hat  in  her  hand,  and  that  wild  pain  grad- 
ually rising,  swelling,  in  her  heart.  It  was  all  she 
could  do  to  keep  still,  not  to  fly  she  knew  not  where. 
But  yet  she  made  an  effort  to  control  herself.  He 
ought  to  have  been  more  delicate,  more  respectful 
than  ever,  now  that  she  was  so  entirely  at  his  mercy. 
He  ought  to  have  treated  her  like  something  sacred. 
Ah !  but  then,  she  said  to  herself,  he  had  never  been 
respectful,  reverent  of  her,  like  Mr.  Koger.  She  had 
preferred  it  so,  —  it  was  Stephen's  way  ;  he  was  only 
a  little  rough,  thinking  there  was  no  need  for  so  many 
ceremonies,  when  to-morrow  —  to-morrow !  She  stood 
with  one  foot  advanced,  ready  in  her  panic  to  fly, 
though  she  did  not  know  where  she  could  fly  to.  And 
then  she  heard  his  voice  shouting  down-stairs  for  some 
one  to  come  up,  —  for  the  maid,  for  Mary.  "  Here, 
you  Stimpson,  send  up  the  girl,  send  Mary  —  what- 
ever her  name  is."  Lily  hastily  locked  the  door  which 
was  between  the  rooms,  while  his  voice  was  audible  ; 
feeling  that  even  the  girl,  even  Mary,  or  whatever 
her  name  was,  would  be  some  protection.  Wild 
thoughts  traversed  her  mind  as  she  stood  there  pant- 
ing for  breath,  like  clouds  driven  over  the  sky  by  a 
stormy  wind,  —  thoughts  over  which  she  had  no  con- 
trol. For  the  first  time  the  other  conclusion  burst 
upon  her,  the  end  of  the  story  which  was  in  all  the 
books :  the  unhappy  girl  betrayed,  wandering  home, 
a  shameful  thing,  to  die.  O  God !  O  God !  would 
that  ever  happen  to  Lily  ?  Not  to  return  in  pride,  a 
gentleman's  wife  on  her  husband's  arm,  to  make  her 
parents  glad,  but  perhaps  in  shame,  flinging  herself 
down  before  the  door,  dying  there,  never  raising  her 
head !  Oh,  what  folly  !  what  folly  !  Oh,  how  horri- 
ble—  horrible!  But  it  could  not  be,  —  how  could  it 


300  THE   SECOND  SON. 

be  ?  It  was  only  Stephen's  way,  —  a  little  rough,  not 
respectful ;  he  had  never  been  respectful.  She  would 
have  laughed  at  the  idea  before  to-night,  —  Stephen 
respectful,  delicate,  thinking  of  her  silly  feelings! 
Oh,  was  it  likely,  when  they  were  to  be  married  to- 
morrow, and  ceremony  would  be  needed  no  more? 

Presently  there  came  a  heavy,  dragging  step  mount- 
ing the  stairs,  a  hard  breathing  as  of  a  fatigued  crea- 
ture ;  the  other  door  of  the  room  was  pushed  open, 
and  some  one  came  in  with  a  steaming  jug  of  hot 
water,  a  London  maid-of-all-work,  of  a  kind  quite 
unknown  to  Lily,  with  a  scrap  of  something  white 
pinned  upon  her  rough  hair,  and  an  apron  hurriedly 
tied  on.  "  I  'm  sorry  as  I  forgot  the  'ot  water, 
ma'am,"  she  said,  and  put  it  down  with  much  noise 
and  commotion,  shaking  the  room  with  her  tread,  and 
making  everything  in  it  ring. 

She  was  not  pretty,  nor  neat,  nor  anything  that 
was  pleasant  to  see,  but  when  she  turned  to  go 
away,  after  putting  down  her  jug,  Lily  caught  her 
arm  with  both  hands.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  don't  go 
away !  don't  go  away ! "  holding  her  fast.  The 
young  woman,  half  frightened,  looked  up  in  the  face 
of  this  lady  who  must  certainly  be  mad  to  seize  upon 
her  so. 

"  Laws !  "  she  cried  ;  and  then,  "  If  it 's  for  lady's- 
maidin',  ma'am,  I  ain't  no  good  ;  and  Missis  wants 
me  down-stairs." 

"  Oh,  wait  a  moment !  wait  a  moment !  "  cried  Lily 
under  her  breath.  A  hundred  questions  rushed  to  her 
lips,  but  she  did  not  know  how  to  put  them  into 
words.  "Didn't  your  mistress — expect  me?"  she 
managed  to  say.  , 

"Missis?  Expect  you?  Oh  yes,  ma'am;  the 
Captain  said  as  you  were  coming." 


IN  THE   TOILS.  301 

A  little  relief  came  to  Lily's  mind.  "  She  did 
expect  me !  But  why  does  she  not  come  then  ? 
Why  doesn't  she  come?" 

"  Missis !  "  said  the  drudge,  astonished.  "  Why, 
she  's  a-cookin'  of  the  dinner.  She  ain't  a  lady's- 
maid,  ma'am,  no  more  than  me." 

"  But  you  said  she  expected  me !  " 

"  Oh,  bless  you !  It  was  the  Captain  as  expected 
you.  He  said,  '  Mrs.  Stimpson,  I  'm  expecting  of  my 
good  lady.  She 's  been  a- visiting  of  her  friends,  and 
I  expects  her  back  Tuesday  or  Wednesday,'  he  says. 
We  was  all  ready  for  you  yesterday,  ma'am,  and  the 
dinner  ordered  ;  but  the  Captain,  he  says, '  It  '11  be 
to-morrow,  Mrs.  Stimpson.'  He  said  as  how  you  was 
very  fond  of  your  own  folks,  and  it  was  always  uncer- 
tain to  a  day  when  you  'd  come  back." 

"  When  I  'd  come  back  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am :  I  hear  him  sayin'  of  it.  '  Mrs. 
Stevens,'  he  says,  '  is  very  fond  of  her  own  folks.  ' ' 

"  Is  that  —  is  that  —  what  he  said  ?  And  where 
does  he  —  live,  then  ?  "  said  Lily,  in  a  whisper  which 
she  could  scarcely  make  audible. 

"  Captain  Stevens  —  when  he  's  at  home  ?  Laws ! 
how  can  I  tell  you  ?  But  for  the  last  week  he  has 
been  living  here,  a-waitin'  for  his  good  lady,  — just  as 
Missis  is  waiting  for  me  to  help  dish  up  the  dinner 
down-stairs." 

Lily  did  not  say  another  word.  She  fixed  her  wild 
eyes  upon  the  maid's  face,  and  signed  to  her  to  go, 
impatiently.  The  drudge  was  surprised  at  this  rapid 
dismissal,  but  she  was  too  much  occupied  with  her 
own  dreary  life  to  trouble  herself  what  happened, 
and  her  mistress,  she  knew,  would  scold  her  for  her 
delay.  She  went  down-stairs,  not  looking  behind, 


302  THE  SECOND  SON. 

not  hearing  the  steps  that  followed  her.  Lily  fol- 
lowed like  a  ghost;  her  foot  was  light,  not  like  the 
heavy  steps  of  the  maid.  She  went  behind  her  step 
by  step,  not  thinking  of  anything  but  of  how  to  get 
away,  incapable  of  thought.  She  had  her  little  bas- 
ket still  in  one  hand,  her  gloves  in  the  other,  which 
she  held  mechanically.  When  the  woman  turned  the 
corner  of  the  stairs  to  pursue  her  way  to  the  kitchen, 
Lily  found  herself  in  the  narrow  hall,  lit  with  one 
dull  flame  of  gas,  alone.  She  flew  noiseless  as  a  bird 
to  the  door  which  was  before  her,  the  only  way  of 
salvation.  In  another  moment  she  was  outside  in  the 
fresh  cool  air  of  the  spring  night. 

Outside,  —  outside  of  everything  ;  alone  in  London, 
without  a  soul  to  turn  to,  —  alone  in  the  unknown 
streets,  on  the  verge  of  the  awful  night ! 


XXVIII. 

A  NIGHT   IN  THE   STEEET8. 

IT  was  a  long  time  before  Lily  could  think  at  all 
of  what  had  happened,  of  what  might  have  happened, 
of  what  might  be  going  to  become  of  her  now,  all  for- 
lorn and  alone  in  the  London  streets.  She  had  no 
time  for  thought ;  the  first  necessity  was  to  go  away, 
to  go  as  far  as  her  trembling  yet  nervously  strong  and 
energetic  limbs  could  carry  her,  —  away,  away  from 
that  dreadful  place.  She  flew  rather  than  ran  close  by 
the  garden  walls  and  railings,  scarcely  feeling  her  feet 
touch  the  ground,  to  the  end  of  the  street,  and  out  of 
that  into  a  little  square,  which  she  crossed  obliquely, 
following  the  street  that  led  out  of  it  at  the  other  cor- 
ner in  a  contrary  direction.  Until  her  breath  was  ex- 
hausted, and  the  first  impulse  of  horror  and  panic  had 
to  some  degree  worn  out,  she  never  paused,  going  al- 
ways straight  before  her,  out  of  one  street  into  an- 
other ;  sometimes  crossing  one  which  was  full  of  bustle 
and  lights,  plunging  into  the  darkness  again  on  the 
other  side.  The  district  to  which  she  had  been  taken 
was  one  of  those  which  flank  great  London  on  every 
side,  like  a  series  of  dull  towns  with  interminable  end- 
less little  streets,  leading  out  of  each  other ;  all  alike, 
monotonous,  featureless,  overpowering  in  their  blank 
nonentity.  Lily  had  no  leisure  of  mind  to  under- 
stand this,  or  think  how  it  was  that  she  found  nothing 
but  solitude  round  her,  though  it  helped  to  oppress 


304  THE   SECOSD  SON. 

her  soul ;  but  now  and  then  a  chilly  anguish  ran 
through  her,  a  feeling  that  she  had  got  into  some  ter- 
rible circle  which  might  bring  her  back  to  the  spot 
she  had  fled  from,  and  throw  her  once  more  into  the 
power  of  him  from  whom  she  had  escaped;  for  the 
streets  were  all  so  like,  so  horribly  like,  with  the  same 
dull  lamps  at  the  corners,  the  same  line  of  little  gar- 
dens, the  same  rows  of  windows.  The  light  had  alto- 
gether faded  out  of  the  evening  sky,  but  it  was  still 
faintly  blue  overhead,  showing  a  glittering  and  twink- 
ling of  innumerable  stars ;  not  bright,  but  mildly  pres- 
ent in  the  sky,  making  a  sort  of  twilight  in  the 
heavens.  The  sight  of  this  pale,  ineffable  clearness 
appearing  where  there  was  a  larger  opening  gave  Lily 
heart  to  go  on  ;  it  was  something  known  in  the  midst 
of  this  strange  wilderness  through  which  she  was  wan- 
dering, something  familiar  where  all  was  so  dark  and 
strange. 

When  the  first  impulse  of  flight  and  panic  began  to 
wane,  and  she  felt  her  breath  fail  her  and  her  limbs 
trembling  under  her,  Lily  slackened  her  pace  uncon- 
sciously; and  then  she  began  to  think.  This  was 
more  dreadful  than  the  other  state,  the  wild  instinct 
which  had  obliterated  everything  except  the  necessity 
of  getting  away.  She  began  to  remember,  to  realize 
what  it  was  that  had  happened  to  her.  Heaven  help 
her,  a  forlorn  and  solitary  creature,  not  knowing 
where  to  go  nor  what  to  do  in  this  awful  desert  of 
houses,  where  there  was  no  door  open  to  her,  but  only 
one  which  led  to  —  helL  That  was  where  it  led  to. 
She  caught  her  breath  with  an  effort  to  repress  the 
long,  broken,  convulsive  sob  that  shook  her  from 
head  to  foot,  and  came  back  and  back,  like  the  sob  of 
a  child  which  has  wept  all  its  tears  away.  Yet  it  was 


A   NIGHT  IN  THE  STREETS.  305 

not  of  the  immediate  danger  she  had  escaped  that  she 
thought  most.  She  did  not,  in  fact,  realize  that,  hav- 
ing an  imagination  free  from  all  visions  of  corruption. 
What  Lily  realized  with  vivid  horror  was  the  picture 
so  common  in  books,  so  continually  repeated,  which 
forms  the  burden  of  so  many  a  rustic  tale,  —  the  be- 
trayed girl  going  home  in  shame  and  misery  to  die, 
creeping  to  her  father's  door,  not  daring  to  knock,  not 
venturing  even  to  look,  hiding  her  ruined  head  upon 
the  threshold.  That  it  should  have  come  within  the 
most  distant  possibility  that  this  could  happen  to  her ! 
This  was  the  first  conscious  thought  that  took  posses- 
sion of  her  when  she  became  able  to  think  at  all.  It 
had  flashed  across  her  mind  as  she  stood  in  the  dimly 
lighted  room,  hearing  from  the  dingy  little  maid  what 
fate  was  preparing  for  her.  It  returned  now,  and 
filled  her  whole  being  with  such  a  pervading  force  as 
is  possible  only  to  the  simple  soul.  It  did  not  seem 
to  be  a  thought  only,  but  a  vision.  She,  Lily,  the 
first  of  all  belonging  to  her,  the  one  exceptional  crea- 
ture, unlike  all  others  ;  knowing  and  feeling  to  the 
very  tips  of  her  fingers  that  she  was  not  like  any  one 
else,  that  she  belonged  to  another  sphere, —  she  whose 
intention  and  dream  it  had  been  to  go  in  at  that 
humble  door,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  the  finest  gen- 
tleman she  knew,  and  justify  her  mother's  pride  and 
fulfill  all  prognostications  of  splendor  and  happiness ! 
That  to  her,  to  Lily,  that  other  fate  might  have  come, 
the  common  fate  of  the  rustic  fool,  the  village  girl  be- 
traj'ed  !  Perhaps  it  was  a  proof  that  no  stronger  pas- 
sion, no  self-abandonment,  had  ever  been  in  Lily's 
thoughts.  This  terrible  picture  took  possession  of 
her ;  she  could  almost  feel  herself  sinking  before  the 
door,  covering  her  face,  and  in  her  heart  the  humilia- 


306  THE   SECOND   SON. 

tion,  the  shame  beyond  words,  the  collapse  of  every 
hope.  If  it  had  not  been  that  silence  was  the  first 
necessity  in  her  present  terrible  circumstances,  noth- 
ing could  have  restrained  the  keen  cry  of  imagined 
anguish  that  was  on  her  lips,  —  that  this  might  have 
happened  to  her  ! 

Then  she  calmed,  or  tried  to  calm,  herself  with  the 
thought  that  it  never  could  have  happened.  Even  if 
she  had  not  ascertained  her  danger  in  time  and  es- 
caped as  she  had  done,  Lily  felt,  grasping  herself 
tight,  as  it  were,  holding  herself  together,  that  shame 
could  never  have  come  to  her,  never,  never,  never! 
It  was  a  thing  which  she  could  not  acknowledge  pos- 
sible, which  never  could  have  been.  She  clenched 
her  hands,  which  were  cold  and  trembling,  until  she 
hurt  them  with  the  pressure*,  and  repeated  Never, 
never,  never!  In  all  the  world  there  was  no  power 
which  could  have  brought  that  humiliation  upon  her. 
Oh,  no,  no,  no !  There  are  things  which  can  be,  and 
there  are  things  which  cannot  be.  She  hurried  on  in 
her  passion,  flying  from  that  thought  which  of  itself 
was  a  degradation  ;  for  to  be  obliged  to  acknowledge 
even  the  possibility  of  shame  approaching,  shame  al- 
most within  touch,  was  a  shameful  thing.  She  went 
on  quicker  and  quicker  to  escape  from  it.  It  takes  a 
long  time  to  exhaust  a  thought,  especially  in  such  cir- 
cumstances as  those  in  which  the  girl  now  found  her- 
self. Was  any  girl  ever  in  such  a  plight  before  ?  In 
the  streets  of  London,  without  a  place  to  go  to,  with- 
out a  friend,  not  knowing  where  to  turn,  lost,  alto- 
gether lost  to  everybody  who  knew  her,  to  everything 
she  knew !  Her  thoughts  swept  on  like  an  accom- 
paniment to  that  soft  sound  of  her  light  footsteps, 
sometimes  interrupted  by  a  start  of  rising  terror 


A   NIGHT  IN   THE  STREETS.  307 

when  she  heard  steps  following  her,  or  saw  some 
figure  coming  into  sight  under  the  lamplight,  but  re- 
suming again,  going  on  and  on.  It  was  a  long  time 
before  she  came  to  the  question  what  she  was  to  do. 
The  night  had  darkened,  deepened,  all  around;  the 
few  little  shops  at  the  street  corners  which  she  passed 
from  time  to  time  had  put  up  their  shutters ;  the 
lights  were  few  in  the  windows.  It  was  no  longer 
evening,  but  night.  What  was  she  to  do  ? 

Lily  had  never  in  her  life  gone  anywhere  or  taken 
any  important  step  by  herself.  She  had  gone  to 
school,  indeed,  without  the  escort  given  to  girls  of  a 
higher  class,  but  even  this  under  limitations :  put  into 
the  railway  carriage  at  one  end,  and  met  at  the  other, 
as  was  thought  necessary  by  her  schoolmistress,  at 
least.  She  knew  that  what  people  did,  when  be- 
nighted in  a  strange  place,  was  to  go  to  a  hotel ;  but 
this  was  an  idea  which  made  the  blood  course  through 
her  veins  more  wildly  than  before.  To  go  to  a  hotel, 
a  girl,  alone,  on  foot,  without  any  luggage  except  the 
basket,  which  she  clung  to  as  if  there  might  possibly 
be  help  in  it !  The  beating  of  her  heart  seemed  to 
choke  Lily,  as  she  thought  of  that  expedient.  How 
could  she  explain  that  she  was  in  London  without  any 
place  to  go  to  ?  No,  no,  that  was  impossible !  She 
could  not  do  it ;  she  had  not  the  courage.  Oh,  if  she 
could  but  see  some  good  woman,  some  one  with  a  kind 
face,  going  into  one  of  the  little  houses,  standing  at 
one  of  the  doors !  In  books  it  was  so  certain  that  a 
poor  girl  would  meet  her  at  the  end,  when  she  was 
perhaps  in  despair.  But  no  good  woman  stood  at  any 
door  which  Lily  passed,  or  looked  at  her  suddenly 
with  compassion,  going  along  the  pavement.  By  this 
time,  indeed,  there  were  no  women  about,  nobody  was 


308  THE  SECOND  SON. 

in  those  quiet  streets.  The  doors  were  all  closed ; 
from  time  to  time  some  one  went  by,  not  distinguish- 
able in  the  lamplight,  who  took  no  notice  of  Lily,  — 
sometimes  a  policeman,  with  his  heavy  tread  sounding 
all  down  the  street  in  the  quiet  of  the  night.  As  it 
grew  later  and  later,  these  policemen  began  to  look  at 
her,  she  observed,  as  if  she  were  a  strange  sight ;  and 
it  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps,  in  her  ignorance,  not 
knowing  where  she  was  going,  she  might  be  passing 
and  repassing  through  the  same  street,  meeting  the 
same  man,  who  would  naturally  wonder  to  see  a  young 
woman  going  along  so  late.  And  she  began  to  get  so 
tired,  —  oh,  so  tired ;  feeling  as  if  she  could  not  go 
further  than  the  next  corner,  yet  walking  on  mechan- 
ically without  any  volition  of  her  own  ;  her  limbs  mov- 
ing, moving,  her  feet  sometimes  stumbling,  always 
going  on  as  if  they  had  some  separate  impulse  of  their 
own.  If  she  only  dared  to  sit  down  on  the  steps  of  a 
door,  rest  a  little,  perhaps  go- to  sleep  for  a  time,  lean- 
ing her  head  upon  her  hand !  But  Lily  felt  hazily, 
in  the  confusion  of  her  weariness,  that  if  she  did  this 
the  policeman  or  some  one  might  speak  to  her,  might 
take  her  perhaps  to  prison,  or  to  the  workhouse,  or 
somewhere  which  would  be  a  disgrace.  Everything 
unknown  seemed  as  if  it  might  be  a  disgrace,  some- 
thing that  would  be  a  shame  to  think  of,  to  have  en- 
countered. To  be  out  all  night  was  shameful,  too,  — 
in  the  streets  all  night !  What  would  any  one  think 
to  whom  that  was  said  ?  In  London  streets  all  night ! 
Anybody  who  heard  of  that  would  think  of  noise  and 
tumult,  and  crowds  of  people  and  blazing  lights,  and 
dreadful  gayety  and  merry-making.  But  what  a  mis- 
take that  was  !  Lily  said  to  herself.  The  streets  of 
London,  —  what  could  be  more  quiet  ?  Quieter  than 


A  NIGHT  IN  THE  STREETS.  309 

the  road  through  the  village  or  the  country  highways, 
where  the  clogs  would  bark,  at  least,  at  a  passing  foot- 
step, and  the  people  in  the  houses  get  up  to  look  out 
and  wonder  who  it  could  be.  But  in  these  streets  no 
dog  barked,  no  window  opened,  no  one  looked  out. 
She  remembered  to  have  heard  that  no  woman  need 
fear  going  anywhere  in  London,  so  long  as  she  walked 
steadily  along,  minding  her  own  business,  giving  no 
occasion  to  any  one  to  interfere.  How  true  that  was, 
how  safe  it  was,  nobody  paying  any  attention !  It 
sounded  a  terrible  thing  to  be  out  walking  about  the 
streets  all  night ;  but  it  was  not  so  dreadful,  after  all. 
There  was  nobody  to  meddle;  the  policeman  might 
perhaps  look  surprised  to  see  a  girl  alone  so  late ;  but 
no  one  said  a  word.  It  was  quite,  quite  safe  ;  it  was 
the  best  way,  so  that  nobody  should  ever  know.  For 
who  could  believe  it  possible  that  Lily,  Lily  I  had 
spent  a  night  like  that,  roaming  restlessly  about  the 
silent,  dark  streets.  If  she  were  not  so  tired,  and  so 
faint,  and  so  ready  to  cry,  and  so  like  to  drop  down 
with  utter  fatigue  and  blinding,  chilling  weariness ! 
But  here  was  the  policeman  coming  again,  and  he 
might  think  he  had  a  right  to  speak  to  her  if  she 
faltered,  or  made  any  sound  of  crying,  or  showed  that 
she  was  tired  while  he  was  passing.  So  she  went  on 
and  on. 

What  she  would  have  done  had  she  not  happened 
upon  this  quiet  district,  these  innumerable  little  si- 
lent streets,  who  can  tell  ?  Had  she  drifted  into  a 
great  thoroughfare,  or  the  places  where  people  live 
who  go  home  late,  poor  Lily's  adventures  might  have 
been  very  different.  It  was  fortunate  for  her  that 
Stephen  Mitford  had  chosen  a  quarter  far  removed 
from  those  which  he  knew  best,  a  place  out  of  reach 


310  THE   SECOND  SON. 

of  any  prying  eyes,  in  the  midst  of  the  respectability 
of  the  Westbourne  Park  district,  in  the  endless  laby- 
rinths of  Roads  and  Gardens  and  Places,  where  mid- 
night commotion  never  enters.  More  than  once  she 
passed  the  very  corner  of  the  street  to  which  he  had 
taken  her,  in  the  ignorance  of  her  aimless  wandering  in 
the  dark  hours  of  the  night ;  sometimes,  indeed,  was 
within  the  length  of  a  street  from  him  searching  for 
her.  But  it  would  not  have  mattered  had  they  met 
face  to  face.  Lily  was  forever  emancipated  from  that 
dream.  He  could  as  soon  have  moved  the  church 
in  the  deep  shadows  of  which  the  poor  girl  ventured 
to  pause  a  little,  leaning  against  the  railings,  as  have 
persuaded  or  forced  her  back  to  the  false  shelter  he 
had  provided.  However,  he  never  came  within  sight 
of  that  shadowy  little  figure,  which  passed  like  a 
ghost,  going  close  to  the  houses,  brushing  past  the 
garden  walls. 

She  was  still  going  on  in  her  circuit,  her  head  more 
and  more  confused,  her  thoughts  more  broken,  all 
lucidity  gone  from  her  mind,  nothing  left  but  the  me- 
chanical power  of  movement  and  sense  that  she  must 
go  on,  when  suddenly  a  miracle  was  worked  about  and 
around  the  poor  little  wanderer.  The  day  broke. 
She  was  so  dazed  with  fatigue  that  she  had  not  ob- 
served the  preliminary  phenomena  of  dawn.  Things 
had  got  clearer  round  her,  but  she  had  taken  no 
notice.  She  had  been  vaguely  aware  of  the  houses, 
with  their  windows  all  veiled  with  white  blinds,  like 
closed  eyes,  which  somehow  became  more  visible,  as 
if  looking  coldly  at  her,  wondering  what  she  was  do- 
ing there,  when  abruptly  there  came  upon  her  through 
an  opening,  like  a  hand  reaching  out  of  heaven,  the 
warmth  and  glory  of  a  ray  of  sunshine.  Lily,  who 


A   NIGHT  IN   THE  STREETS.  311 

all  that  awful  night  through  had  not  uttered  a  sound, 
started  as  if  some  one  had  touched  her,  and  gave  a 
faint  cry.  The  sun,  the  day !  It  was  over,  then,  this 
horrible  darkness  and  silence.  She  put  her  hand  to 
her  heart  to  which  the  ray,  the  dart,  had  gone.  All  at 
once  the  danger  seemed  over.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  now  could  sit  down  anywhere,  which  was  the  one 
sole,  overpowering  wish  that  remained  in  her  —  rest 
anywhere  without  being  remarked.  The  policeman  was 
no  longer  a  thing  to  fear,  nor  any  one,  any  one !  Not 
that  she  had  been  afraid,  but  now  that  it  was  over  she 
felt  with  reawakening  faculties  all  the  horror  that  had 
been  in  it,  —  now  that  it  was  day.  She  did  not  sit 
down,  however,  though  the  friendly  steps  at  all  those 
closed  doors  appeared  to  spread  out  like  delightful 
places  of  refuge  to  receive  her.  One  on  which  that 
ray  of  sunshine  slanted  was  almost  too  tempting  to 
be  resisted.  But  courage  came  back  to  her  with  the 
light,  and  freedom  and  deliverance.  It  might  be  pos- 
sible to  ask  for  shelter  somewhere,  to  look  out  wist- 
fully again  for  that  good  woman,  now  the  day  had 
come.  But  though  she  felt  this  sudden  relief  in  her 
soul,  utter  exhaustion  made  Lily  like  a  creature  in 
a  dream,  moving  she  could  not  tell  how,  drifting  on- 
ward with  little  conscious  impulse  of  her  own.  She 
remarked  things  round  her,  and  felt  the  sensation  of 
freedom,  but  always  as  in  a  dream.  Presently  she 
came  to  the  edge  of  a  large  thoroughfare,  and  stood 
and  gazed  at  it  with  a  wonder  that  was  half  reverence 
and  half  fear.  Lily  knew  enough  to  understand  that 
this  was  not  like  the  streets  in  which  she  had  been  wan- 
dering. The  great  shops  all  barricaded  and  barred, 
the  wide  pavements,  the  many  lamps,  some  of  them 
still  burning  ineffectually,  with  curious  unnecessary 


312  THE   SECOND  SON. 

light,  in  the  full  eye  of  clay,  showed  her  that  this  was 
one  of  the  centres  of  life  of  which  she  had  heard.  She 
thought  it  was  perhaps  Regent  Street  or  Piccadilly. 
To  see  it  bereft  of  all  life,  silent,  filled  with  light  and 
the  freshness  of  the  morning,  produced  in  her  mind 
some  faint  shadow  of  that  emotion  with  which  the 
poet  saw  the  "  mighty  heart  "  of  the  great  city  lying 
still,  and  the  river  flowing  at  its  will.  But  that  im- 
pression was  faint,  and  the  aspect  of  the  deserted 
street  chilled  once  more  the  innocent  vagrant,  half 
restored  to  life  by  the  awakening  touch  of  day. 
There  was  no  one  to  help  her,  no  one  looking  out 
to  see  what  unhappy  lost  creature  was  in  want  of 
succor,  no  good  woman.  Oh,  where  was  she,  that 
good  woman,  who  would  take  her  by  the  hand,  who 
would  stand  between  her  distracted  youth  and  the  ter- 
rible world  ? 

She  was  too  much  worn  out,  however,  to  feel  even 
this  with  any  warmth.  Standing  still  had  rested  her  a 
little  :  she  went  on  again,  automatically,  scarcely  know- 
ing why,  because  there  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do, 
along  the  whole  vacant  length  of  the  empty  street. 
An  early  workman  or  two,  pipe  in  mouth,  went  past 
her,  taking  no  notice.  No  one  took  any  notice.  The 
earliest  houses  began  to  wake,  as  she  passed,  a  few 
blinds  were  drawn  up,  a  housemaid  appeared  here  and 
there  at  a  door,  — a  girl  who  had  slept  all  night,  and 
risen  to  her  work  cheerful  and  rosy,  whereas  she  !  One 
or  two  of  these  looked  curiously  at  her,  she  thought,  as 
she  went  along.  Was  her  walk  unsteady  ?  Was  her 
hair  untidy  ?  she  wondered  vaguely.  What  would  they 
think  ?  And  what  was  she  to  do  ?  What  was  she  to 
do  ?  Though  she  could  neither  feel  nor  think  save  by 
moments,  something  would  rise  in  the  morning  air,  and 


A   NIGHT  IN   THE  STREETS.  313 

breathe  across  her  with  this  question.  What,  what  was 
she  to  do  ?  As  she  went  on,  she  suddenly  became  aware 
that  the  people  whom  she  had  begun  mechanically  to 
observe,  appearing  one  by  one  from  various  sides,  were 
all  tending  in  one  direction  ;  and  then  a  carriage  or  two 
came  noisily  along,  disturbing  the  quiet,  turning  the 
same  way.  She  looked  up,  and  her  heart  gave  a  wild 
spring,  then  fell  down  again,  down,  down,  into  her 
bosom.  It  was  the  railway  to  which  the  people  were 
all  tending,  and  she  with  them,  —  the  way  home. 
How  could  she  go  home  ?  Oh,  home,  home,  to  which 
she  had  meant  to  return  triumphant  on  her  husband's 
arm  !  Her  husband  —  but  who  was  he  ?  She  had  no 
husband  ;  and  how  could  she  go  home  ?  She  must 
think,  she  must  think  ;  the  time  had  come  at  last 
when  she  must  think,  and  find  out  what  she  was  to 
do.  She  went  on  with  the  little  stream,  following  in- 
stinctively, as  if  the  current  had  caught  her.  One 
lady  went  into  the  waiting-room,  where  Lily  followed, 
still  mechanically.  She  did  not  know  why  she  should 
choose  to  follow  that  individual  more  than  another : 
they  were  all  blind  leaders  of  the  blind  to  the  con- 
fused intelligence,  now  sinking  into  a  sort  of  waking 
sleep.  But  when  she  found  herself  sheltered  by  four 
walls  and  with  a  roof  over  her  head,  the  long  wretch- 
edness of  the  night  overwhelmed  Lily.  It  seemed  to 
have  waited  for  her  there  to  close  around  her,  to  stu- 
pefy all  her  faculties.  She  sank  down  upon  a  sofa, 
unconscious  of  the  public  place  it  was,  knowing  noth- 
ing except  that  here  at  last  was  shelter,  and  a  place 
where  she  could  lay  her  weary  head. 


XXIX. 

THE   KNIGHT-ERRANT   AND   THE   DETECTIVE. 

"  YOUR  Lily  ?  "  exclaimed  Edmund,  with  an 
amazement  so  evident  that  the  poor  woman,  who 
stood  subduing  herself,  in  a  state  of  passionate  ex- 
citement, yet  keeping  down  her  voice  and  her  tears, 
half  in  eagerness  to  hear  his  reply,  half  in  terror  lest 
she  should  betray  her  distress  to  other  ears  than  his, 
clasped  her  hands  together  in  dismay,  and  burst  into 
one  momentary  strangled  cry.  She  had  not  doubted 
that  he  would  know,  —  and  he  knew  nothing.  Her 
feverish  hope,  the  hope  which  had  seemed  almost  a 
certainty,  fell  in  a  moment  and  perished. 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  " oh,  Mr.  Edmund,  don't  say 
that  you  don't  know,  for  it 's  been  all  my  hope  !  " 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  gently,  and  led  her  to  a 
chair.  The  interruption  had  made  him  angry  at  first ; 
but  the  real  and  terrible  suffering  in  her  homely  face, 
which  was  blanched  out  of  all  its  usual  ruddiness,  the 
mouth  trembling,  the  brows  all  puckered  with  trouble, 
touched  Edmund's  heart.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said,  "  and 
compose  yourself,  and  tell  me  what  has  happened.  I 
know  nothing  about  your  daughter :  what  is  it  ?  If  I 
can  do  anything  to  help  you,  I  will." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Edmund  !  "  cried  the  poor  woman  again  ; 
then  she  clasped  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and,  leaning 
forward,  her  eyelids  swollen  and  large  with  tears,  said 
with  impressive  tragical  simplicity,  "  I  have  not  seen 
my  Lily  since  yesterday  middle  day,  —  not  since  yes- 
terday middle  day." 


KNIGHT-ERRANT  AND  DETECTIVE.       315 

"You  have  not  seen  her?  I  don't  understand," 
said  Edmund.  "  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  had 
a  quarrel  —  that  she  has  —  No,  no,  I  know  that 
can't  be.  She  must  have  gone  —  to  see  some  of  your 
friends." 

"  We  have  no  friends,  Mr.  Edmund,  as  she  'd  wish 
to  go  and  see.  Oh,  if  I  've  been  a  foolish  woman 
bringing  her  up  as  I  have  done,  out  of  her  own  kind, 
oh,  God  forgive  me,  and  that  it  may  all  lie  upon  me  ! 
Mr.  Edmund  she  's  got  no  friends  for  that  reason, 
because  she's  a  lady,  is  my  Lily,  and  the  rest  are 
all  just  girls  in  the  village.  It  never  was  no  amuse- 
ment to  her,  nor  no  pleasure,  to  go  with  them.  No, 
no,  she 's  not  gone  to  no  friends.  There  's  only  one 
thing  I  can  think  of  to  keep  me  from  despair.  Oh, 
Mr.  Edmund,  have  pity  upon  me !  Tell  me  as  she 
has  gone  off  with  your  brother,  and  I  '11  never  say 
a  word.  I  '11  not  suspect  nor  think  no  harm.  Mr. 
Edmund,  I  have  confidence  in  my  Lily,  and  Mr. 
Roger,  he 's  always  acted  proper  and  like  a  gentleman. 
Oh,  Mr.  Edmund,  say  as  he  's  taken  her  away  !  " 

"  Why  should  he  take  her  away?  He  has  asked 
her  to  marry  him,  and  he  has  told  you  of  it,  and 
my  father  knows ;  everybody  is  now  prepared  for 
the  marriage.  You  may  be  sure  it  would  never  oc- 
cur to  my  brother  to  do  anything  clandestine,  any- 
thing secret.  Why  should  he?  He  has  suffered 
enough  for  her ;  there  can  be  no  need  for  any  secret 
now." 

Edmund  could  scarcely  restrain  the  indignation 
which  rose  in  his  mind  as  he  spoke.  Yes,  Roger  had 
suffered  enough  for  her.  To  run  away,  after  all, 
with  this  cottage  girl  was  a  supposition  impossible, 
unworthy  of  him,  ridiculous.  Why  had  he  borne  all 


81*5  THE   SECOND   SON. 

that  he  had  done,  if  the  matter  was  to  come  to  such  a 
solution  at  the  end  ? 

"  I  've  said  that  to  myself,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Ford. 
"  I  've  said  it  over  and  over  :  all  as  ever  Mr.  Roger 
has  done  or  said,  he  's  been  the  perfect  gentleman  all 
through.  But,"  she  added,  crushing  her  hands  to- 
gether, and  raising  to  him  her  tearful  face,  "if  my 
Lily  is  not  with  him,  where  is  she  ?  for  I  have  not 
seen  her  —  I  have  not  seen  her  "  —  her  voice  broke, 
choked  with  tears  and  unquenchable  sobs  —  "  me,  that 
never  let  her  out  of  my  sight,  —  not  since  yesterday 
middle  day.  And  there  's  her  bed  that  no  one  ?s 
slept  in,  and  her  things  all  lying,  and  supper  and 
breakfast  never  touched.  And  oh,  where  is  she,  where 
is  she,  Mr.  Edmund,  where 's  my  Lily  ? "  cried  the 
poor  mother,  her  painful  self-control  breaking  down. 
She  held  up  her  hands  to  him  in  an  agony  of  appeal. 
Her  poor  homely  face  was  transfigured  with  love  and 
anguish,  with  that  aching  and  awful  void  in  which 
every  wretchedness  is  concentrated. 

It  was  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  if  in  Edmund's 
mind  there  had  sprung  up  at  first  a  sort  of  impatient 
hope  that  here  was  a  possibility  of  being  rid  of  Lily, 
that  troubler  of  everybody's  peace.  But  he  could  not 
resist  the  misery  in  the  poor  woman's  face.  He  sat 
down  by  her  and  soothed  her  as  best  he  could,  in- 
quiring when  and  how  the  girl  had  disappeared  and 
what  the  circumstances  were,  if  perhaps  they  might 
throw  any  light  upon  it.  It  was  a  curious  and  bewil- 
dering coincidence  that  she  should  have  disappeared 
on  the  afternoon  on  which  Roger  had  gone  to  town. 
Was  it  possible,  his  brother  asked  himself,  that,  weary 
of  all  that  had  taken  place,  scarcely  happy  even  in 
the  prospect  of  what  was  to  come,  Roger  had  snatched 


KNIGHT-ERRANT  AND  DETECTIVE.      317 

at  the  possibility  of  concluding  the  whole  business 
without  further  fuss  or  fret,  and  persuaded  her  to 
trust  herself  to  him?  He  thought  it  strange,  very 
strange,  that  his  brother  should  have  dreamed  of  such 
an  expedient ;  stranger  still  that  Lily,  no  doubt  elated 
by  such  a  change  in  her  fortunes,  should  have  con- 
sented to  it,  and  foregone  her  triumph.  But  still  it 
was  extraordinary  that  both  these  events  should  hap- 
pen in  one  day,  both  in  one  afternoon,  Roger's  de- 
parture and  Lily's  disappearance.  He  could  not 
refuse  to  see  the  probability  of  some  connection  be- 
tween them.  While  he  listened  to  Mrs.  Ford's  story, 
his  mind  went  off  into  endeavors  to  reason  it  out,  to 
convince  himself  that  the  possibility  of  such  a  rapid 
conclusion  might  have  struck  Roger  as  desirable. 
He  interrupted  her  to  ask  if  she  had  inquired  at  the 
station,  if  any  one  had  seen  Lily  there.  "  It  must 
be  known,  some  one  must  have  seen  her,  if  she  went 
by  that  train.  But  of  course  you  have  inquired 
there." 

Mrs.  Ford  replied  with  a  little  scream  of  alarm. 

"Ask,  ask  at  the  station! — as  if  I  didn't  know 
about  my  own  child,  as  if  she  had  gone  away  unbe- 
knownst to  me !  I  'd  rather  die !  Oh,  Mr.  Edmund, 
don't  go  and  do  that ;  don't,  for  God's  sake  !  Ask  — 
about  Lily !  —  as  if  she  was  lost,  as  if  we  did  n't 
know  where  she  was "  —  She  seized  him  by  the 
arm,  in  her  terror,  as  if  she  feared  he  would  begin 
his  inquiries  at  once.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Edmund,  don't, 
don't,  for  the  love  of  God  !  " 

"  If  you  do  not  inquire,  how  are  you  ever  to 
know?  "  he  asked,  with  impatience. 

"  I  'd  rather  never  know,"  she  replied.  "  I  'd 
rather  spend  my  life  in  misery  then  expose  my  Lily. 


318  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Whatever  she 's  done,  she 's  done  it  with  a  right 
heart :  whatever  happens,  I  know  that.  And  rather 
than  ask  strangers  about  her,  or  let  on  as  I  dou't 
know,  I  'd  rather  die.  Don't  you  go  and  expose  us, 
and  make  my  girl  the  talk  of  the  parish  that  does  n't 
know  her  —  oh,  that  does  n't  know  what  she  is  !  Ford 
would  have  done  it,  never  thinking ;  but  he  saw  when 
I  told  him.  Mr.  Edmund,"  she  said,  rising,  with 
a  kind  of  dignity  in  her  despair,  "  I  came  to  you 
putting  faith  in  you  because  of  your  brother.  You 
have  n't  got  no  right  to  betray  me,  nor  my  Lily.  If 
you  go  and  expose  my  Lily  "  —  She  stopped  with  a 
gasp,  —  words  would  do  no  more,  —  but  confronted 
the  young  master,  the  gentleman  to  whom  she  had 
looked  up  as  a  superior  being,  with  all  the  indignant 
grandeur  of  an  angry  rueen. 

"  You  need  not  fear  for  me,  —  I  will  betray  no  one," 
said  Edmund.  "  And  I  think  I  understand  you,"  he 
added,  more  quietly,  "  but  it  is  very  unreasonable,  — 
you  must  see  it  is  unreasonable.  How  are  we  to  find 
out  if  we  make  no  inquiries  ?  However,  I  understand 
you,  and  I  will  say  no  more.  I  don't  know  what  to 
think  about  my  brother.  It  was  to  avoid  him  that 
she  left  the  house,  and  that  she  told  you  she  was 
going  to  spend  the  day  in  the  park ;  and  she  said 
you  could  tell  him  truly  that  she  was  far,  far  away? 
And  yet  you  think  —  I  don't  know  what  to  think." 

"  It 's  all  true,  —  it 's  all  true  !  Nor  I  don't  know 
what  to  think  —  But  oh,  my  Lily,  my  Lily,  where 
is  she  ?  "  the  mother  cried,  wringing  her  hands. 

After  a  time  Edmund  succeeded  in  calming  the 
poor  woman,  and  persuaded  her  to  go  home,  promis- 
ing to  follow  her  there,  to  meet  her  husband,  and 
discuss  with  them  both  what  was  to  be  done.  Ap- 


KNIGHT-ERRANT  AND  DETECTIVE.       319 

pearances  were  so  strongly  against  Roger  that  it  was 
impossible  for  Edmund  to  stand  aside  and  let  the 
poor  little  rural  tragedy  go  on  to  its  appropriate,  its 
conventional  end.  If  Roger  had  anything  to  do  with 
it,  it  would  not  have  that  conventional  end.  But  it 
became  harder  and  harder,  as  he  thought  all  the  cir- 
cumstances over,  to  persuade  himself  that  Roger 
'Could  have  taken  such  a  strange  step.  He  conducted 
Mrs.  Ford  down  -  stairs  through  the  billiard  -  room, 
which  was  the  way  in  which  she  was  least  likely  to  be 
seen  by  the  servants,  and  flattered  himself  that  no- 
body save  Larkiiis  was  any  the  wiser.  Larkins  was  a 
person  of  discretion,  —  of  too  much  discretion,  indeed, 
for  he  had  looked  every  inch  the  possessor  of  a  family 
secret  when  he  called  Edmund  out  of  his  father's 
room  to  see  Mrs.  Ford,  and  there  was  a  suspicious 
vacancy  about  the  hall  and  corridors,  as  if  the  pru- 
dent butler  had  thought  it  necessary  to  clear  every 
possible  spectator  away.  The  consciousness  of  some- 
thing to  conceal  makes  the  apprehension  unusually 
lively.  In  ordinary  circumstances  Edmund  would 
have  remarked  neither  Larkins's  looks  nor  the  va- 
cancy of  the  house  and  passages.  He  was  not,  how- 
ever, to  be  allowed  long  to  congratulate  himself  upon 
this  quiet.  When  he  came  out  of  the  billiard-room, 
after  Mrs.  Ford's  departure,  he  met  Nina,  her  eyes 
dancing  with  curiosity  and  the  keen  delight  of  an  in- 
quirer who  has  got  upon  the  scent  of  a  new  mystery. 

"  Oh,  Edmund !  "  she  said,  breathless,  too  eager 
even  to  dissimulate  the  heat  of  her  pursuit. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,  Edmund,  only  looking.  Was  that 
Mrs.  Ford,  that  woman  going  out  this  way?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  you  who  it  was,  Nina  ? 


320  THE  SECOND  SON. 

You  had  better  go  back  to  your  own  part  of  the 
house." 

"  Oh,  Edmund,  I  do  so  want  to  know.  I  want  to 
ask  you  something.  What  is  the  matter?  You  and 
papa  were  shut  up  so  long  in  the  library,  and  then 
you  and  Mrs.  Ford.  Are  you  fond  of  Lily,  too? 
Are  you  like  all  the  rest  ?  " 

Edmund  put  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  led  her  to 
the  drawing-room.  It  was  only  there,  in  the  shelter 
of  that  wide  and  quiet  space,  that  he  trusted  himself 
to  turn  round  upon  her.  "  Nina,"  he  said,  severely, 
"will  you  never  be  cured  of  this  prying  and  listen- 
ing ?  "  And  then,  drawing  his  breath  hard,  "  Why 
do  you  put  such  a  question  to  me  ?  Do  you  know  it 
is  a  great  piece  of  impertinence  ?  And  what  do  you 
mean  by  '  all  the  rest '  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Edmund,  don't  look  so  angry.  I  have  n't 
done  anything  wrong ;  indeed,  indeed,  I  was  n't  lis- 
tening !  How  could  I,"  said  Nina,  with  indignation, 
"  when  you  know  there  are  those  horrid  portieres  at 
the  library  door  ?  " 

Edmund,  with  a  groan,  threw  himself  into  a  chair  ; 
this  little  creature,  with  her  odious  insight  and  infor- 
mation, had  him  in  her  power. 

"  And,  Edmund,"  she  went  on,  "  do  you  think  it  is 
possible  not  to  want  to  know,  when  the  whole  house  is 
turned  upside  down  ?  Roger  coming  home  on  Mon- 
day, going  away  on  Tuesday  again,  you  in  a  great 
worry  all  the  time,  papa  so  angry  and  shut  up  in  the 
library  with  Mr.  Pouncefort,  —  there  is  always  some- 
thing wrong  when  Mr.  Pouncefort  is  sent  for,  Sim- 
mons says,  —  and  then  Mrs.  Ford  taken  to  your 
sitting-room  up-stairs.  If  you  think  all  that  can  hap- 
pen, and  only  me  not  want  to  know  !  " 


KNIGHT-ERRANT  AND  DETECTIVE.      321 

There  was  a  certain  reason  in  what  she  said  which 
her  brother  could  not  dispute  ;  and  her  words  were 
full  of  mysterious  suggestions.  k;  What  do  you  mean," 
he  said  again,  "  by  '  all  the  rest '?  " 

"  I  would  tell  you  if  you  would  not  be  angry ;  but 
how  can  I  tell  you,  Edmund,  when  you  find  fault  with 
everything  I  say?" 

He  waved  his  hand  in  mingled  impatience  and  apol- 
ogy. All  the  rest !  —  was  it  only  the  instinct  of  a 
gossip,  or  was  there  any  light  to  come  upon  this  dark 
problem  from  what  Nina,  with  her  servants'-hall  in- 
formation, really  knew. 

"  Well,  Roger  is  in  love  with  her,"  said  Nina, 
calmly ;  "  every  one,  both  up-stairs  and  down-stairs, 
knows  that.  I  did,"  the  little  girl  added,  with  a  cer- 
tain triumph,  "  long  ago." 

"  Nina,  you  don't  know  how  you  vex  me.  You 
ought  to  be  sent  away,  my  poor  little  girl ;  you  ought 
not  to  be  left  here  "  — 

"  To  Geraldine's  or  Amy's !  Oh,  yes,  do  ask  papa 
to  send  me,"  cried  Nina,  clapping  her  hands. 

"  But  allowing  that  about  Roger,  which  is  no  busi- 
ness of  yours,  Roger  is  only  one,  after  all ;  what  do 
you  mean  by  '  all  the  rest '  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  only  said  that  when  I  thought  that  you,  too 
—  because  of  Mrs.  Ford  going  up  to  your  room,  Ed- 
mund." 

"  You  have  nothing  to  do  with  Mrs.  Ford,  nor  with 
me  either.  WThat  did  you  mean  by  '  all  the  rest '  ?  " 

Nina  hung  her  head  a  little.  "  It  is  n't  grammat- 
ical to  say  all  when  there  are  only  two,  is  it?"  she 
said ;  "  but  supposing  there  were  only  two,  Edmund, 
why,  then  they  would  be  '  all  the  rest ' !  " 

"  Who  are  the  two  ?     Who  was  the  second,  Nina?  " 


322  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  Oh,  Edmund,  don't  tell  upon  me  !  I  don't  mind 
for  Roger.  He  might  be  angry,  but  he  wouldn't 
scold  me.  And  then  they  say  he  has  told  papa  and 
everybody  that  he  is  going  to  marry  Lily,  so  it  would 
be  no  secret.  But,  Edmund,  if  you  were  to  tell 
Steve  "  — 

"  Steve !  " 

"  Well,  of  course,"  said  Nina,  "  he  is  '  all  the  rest ; ' 
who  could  it  be  else?  I  said  you  too,  and  there  are 
only  the  three  of  you.  I  found  out  Steve  all  by  my- 
self. He  used  to  go  out  every  evening  after  dinner. 
I  wondered  very  much,  —  how  could  I  help  it  ?  —  and 
then  I  found  out  what  it  meant." 

"  Nina,  this  is  too  dreadful ;  you  are  no  better  than 
a  little  spy.  You  found  it  out,  you  went  after  him, 
you  followed  him  —  where  ?  To  the  lodge  ?  " 

Nina  had  been  nodding  vigorously  during  the  course 
of  these  interrogations ;  but  when  he  came  to  the  last 
she  changed  the  movement,  and  shook  her  head  with 
all  its  innocent  curls,  instead  of  nodding  it.  "  Oh,  no, 
no !  "  she  said,  "  he  never  went  near  the  lodge ;  she 
met  him  in  the  park.  They  had  a  post-office,  a  place 
where  they  put  their  letters,  in  a  hollow  tree  ;  I  could 
show  it  to  you,  Edmund.  And  I  will  tell  you  another 
thing,"  cried  the  girl,  forgetting  all  possibility  of  re- 
proof in  the  delight  of  having  such  a  wonderful  tale 
to  tell.  "  Some  one  saw  Lily  Ford  at  Molton  Junc- 
tion yesterday.  She  went  to  the  office  and  sent  off  a 
telegraph,  —  oh,  I  know  that 's  not  the  right  word, 
but  you  know  what  I  mean,  —  she  sent  off  a  telegraph 
from  Molton  Junction.  It  is  a  long  walk  to  Molton 
Junction.  If  it  had  been  right  to  do  it,  she  would 
have  sent  it  from  our  own  station.  I  don't  know 
what  it  was,"  said  Nina,  regretfully,  "  but  I  am  sure 
she  must  have  intended  that  nobody  should  know." 


KNIGHT-ERRANT  AND  DETECTIVE.       323 

"  At  Molton  Junction !  "  Edmund  forgot  to  chide 
the  little  collector  of  news,  whose  eyes  were  dancing 
with  satisfaction  and  triumph,  as  she  brought  out  one 
detail  after  another.  She  enjoyed  her  own  narrative 
thoroughly,  without  observing  its  effect  upon  him. 
He  had  grown  very  grave,  his  face  was  overcast,  his 
brows  were  knitted  over  his  eyes,  which  looked  away 
into  vacancy  as  if  seeing  something  there  that  ap- 
palled him.  "  And  what  then  ?  What  did  she  do 
then?"  he  asked,  sharply,  turning  round.  Nina  was 
taken  by  surprise  at  this  sudden  change  of  tone. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  did  not  hear  any  more.  I  sup- 
pose she  must  have  walked  home  again.  And  fancy 
going  all  that  way  only  to  send  a  telegraph,  when  you 
have  a  station  so  near  your  own  door  !  " 

"  Then  she  went  only  to  send  the  telegram  ;  and 
came  back  again  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Nina,  with  a  sudden  sense  that 
her  evidence,  though  so  full  of  interest  that  at  last  it 
had  silenced  Edmund,  was  on  this  point  defective. 
She  had  all  the  instincts  of  a  detective,  and  perceived 
her  failure,  and  saw  in  a  moment  that  her  brother  had 
expected  more.  But  Edmund  asked  no  further  ques- 
tions. His  mind  was  indeed  so  distracted  by  this  new 
light  as  for  the  moment  to  be  almost  paralyzed.  And 
yet  there  was  nothing  impossible  nor  even  unlikely  in 
it.  But  if  the  solution  of  the  problem  was  to  be 
found  in  Nina's  story,  what  was  he  to  say  to  the  mis- 
erable father  and  mother  ?  The  new  character  thus 
introduced  was  very  different  from  him  whom  they 
suspected ;  and  Stephen's  actions  could  not  be  calcu- 
lated on,  like  Roger's.  If  Lily  had  fallen  into  his 
hands,  Heaven  help  her !  for  she  was  very  little  likely 
to  escape.  It  was  not,  however,  of  Lily  that  he 


324  THE  SECOND  SON. 

thought ;  if  he  considered  her  at  all,  it  was  with  an 
impatient  feeling  that,  whatever  happened,  she  would 
have  but  herself  to  thank  for  it,  which  was  not  just. 
Even  Ford  and  his  wife,  though  Edmund's  heart 
ached  to  think  of  them,  held  a  secondary  place  in  his 
thoughts.  But  Roger!  This  was  what  struck  him 
dumb  with  dismay.  How  was  he  to  tell  Roger  that 
the  girl  he  had  loved  had  fled  from  her  father's  house, 
and  in  all  probability  with  his  brother  ?  And  the 
Squire,  who  for  this  unhappy  girl's  sake  had  disin- 
herited Roger,  and  was  putting  Stephen's  name  in  the 
place  of  that  of  his  eldest  son !  What  could  be  more 
terrible  than  that  irony  of  fate  ? 


XXX. 

CARRYING   EVIL   TIDINGS. 

EDMUND  found  Ford  the  gamekeeper,  with  red 
eyes,  strained  by  watching  and  misery,  waiting  for 
him  as  he  approached  the  lodge ;  and  Mrs.  Ford  came 
out  from  her  door  to  meet  them  as  they  neared  the 
house.  The  sight  of  these  two  unhappy  people  gazing 
at  him  with  a  wistful  hope,  as  if  he  could  do  some- 
thing, went  to  Edmund's  heart.  Their  house  loomed 
vacant  and  miserable,  with  all  the  doors  open,  an 
empty  place  behind  them,  while  they  stood  on  either 
side  of  their  visitor,  and  with  appealing  faces  mutely 
implored  him  to  help  them.  For  neither  of  them 
could  say  much.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Edmund  !  "  Mrs.  Ford 
cried  from  time  to  time,  while  her  husband  stood 
crushing  his  hat  in  his  hands,  starting  at  every  little 
sound,  with  his  bloodshot  eyes  fixed  upon  the  young 
master.  Ford's  misery  was  more  pitiful  to  see  than 
his  wife's  was.  He  had  less  command  of  words,  and 
could  not  calm  himself  either  by  renewed  statements 
of  the  case  or  tears,  as  she  could :  and  perhaps  the 
grosser  dangers  were  more  present  to  his  mind,  and 
he  had  less  confidence  in  Lily's  power  of  controlling 
circumstances.  All  that  he  could  do  to  relieve  the 
anguish  of  his  soul  was  to  turn  and  twist  his  hat  out 
of  all  shape  in  those  strong  moist  hands,  with  which 
he  would  have  wrung  the  neck,  if  he  could,  of  the 
man  who  had  beguiled  away  his  Lily  :  but  Ford  was 
not  capable  of  uttering  her  name. 


326  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Edmund's  attempt  to  question  the  anxious  pair  as 
to  whether  Lily  had  known  any  one  who  could  have 
tempted  her  away,  whether  there  was  any  lover,  even 
any  acquaintance  whom  she  could  have  made  without 
their  knowledge,  produced  nothing  but  eager  con- 
tradictions from  Mrs.  Ford,  and  a  look  of  fury  in  her 
husband's  face  which  warned  Edmund  that  the  man 
was  nearly  beyond  his  own  control,  and  might  almost 
be  tempted  to  spring  upon  him,  Edmund,  in  lieu  of 
any  other  victim.  "  Who  could  she  ever  see?  Who 
entered  our  doors  but  Mr.  Roger  ?  And  not  him  with 
my  will,"  said  Mrs.  Ford,  —  "  oh,  not  with  my  will ! 
I  would  have  shut  the  door  upon  him,  if  I  could. 
But  never  another  came  near  the  place,  —  never  an- 
other !  And  she  was  n't  one  to  talk  or  to  bandy 
words :  oh,  never  anything  of  that  sort !  She  was  as 
retired,  as  quiet,  never  putting  herself  forward,  never 
letting  any  man  think  as  she  was  to  be  spoken  to  dif- 
ferent from  a  lady  "  — 

Ford  made  a  wild  movement,  as  if  he  would  have 
struck  his  wife.  "  Will  you  stop  that  ? "  he  said 
hoarsely,  the  blood  mounting  into  his  brown,  weather- 
beaten  countenance  ;  and  then  she  began  to  cry,  poor 
soul,  while  he  kneaded  his  hat  with  restless  hands,  and 
looked  straight  before  him  into  the  vacancy  of  the 
park,  his  eyes  red  and  lowering  with  excess  of  wretch- 
edness and  sleeplessness  and  misery.  He  could  not 
speak  nor  hear  her  speak ;  he  was  impatient  of  any 
touch  upon  his  wounds ;  and  yet,  in  the  helplessness 
of  his  ignorance,  incapable  of  doing  anything  in  his 
own  person,  he  turned  his  piteous  gaze  again,  with 
dumb  expectation,  on  Edmund,  who  assuredly  could 
do  something,  he  knew  not  what,  to  help  to  clear  up 
this  misery,  to  find  Lily  if  found  she  could  be. 


CARRYING  EVIL   TIDINGS.  327 

"  Mrs.  Ford,"  said  Edmund,  "  if  you  are  right,  she 
is  as  safe  as  if  she  were  here  in  your  own  care.  My 
brother  Roger  asked  her  from  you  as  his  wife." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Edmund !  "  cried  Mrs.  Ford,  wringing 
her  hands. 

"  She  is  as  safe  as  in  your  own  house,"  said  Ed- 
mund, stopping  with  a  gesture  the  story  on  her  lips. 
"  If  she  is  with  him,  all  is  well.  Ford,  you  know  him  ; 
you  know  that  what  I  say  is  true." 

The  man  looked  at  him  wildly,  crushing  his  hat 
into  a  pulp  in  his  fierce  grasp.  "  I  don't  know  noth- 
ing," he  suddenly  burst  forth,  with  a  kind  of  roar  of 
anguish,  —  "  nothing  but  that  I  '11  wring  his  damned 
neck  with  these  hands !  " 

"  Ford,  oh,  Ford  !  " 

"  I  '11  wring  his  damned  neck,  master  or  no  master, 
if  he 's  harmed  my  girl !  "  said  the  man,  with  his 
hoarse  roar,  pushing  his  wife  away  with  his  elbow. 
Then  he  turned  to  Edmund  with  the  pathetic  eyes 
of  a  dog,  a  helpless  dumb  creature  asking  for  help. 
"  Do  something  for  us,  Mr.  Edmund,"  he  said. 

"  I  will,  I  will,  if  I  can,"  Edmund  cried.  They 
stood  on  each  side  of  him,  their  eyes,  appealing,  go- 
ing to  his  very  heart.  What  was  he  to  do?  He 
knew,  though  they  did  not,  how  vain  it  was.  If  she 
were  with  Roger,  then  no  harm  could  come  to  her. 
But  Stephen !  —  how  could  he  suggest  to  them  that 
horrible  danger,  that  misery  in  which  there  was  no 
hope? 

Edmund  went  to  London  by  the  night  train.  He 
arrived  very  early  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  before 
it  was  possible  to  see  any  one,  even  his  brother.  He 
went  to  the  hotel  near  the  station,  and  loitered 
through  those  slow,  still  morning  hours,  when  noth- 


328  THE  SECOND  SON. 

ing  can  be  done,  which  are  perhaps  more  dreadful  in 
their  monotony  than  any  others.  He  was  too  much 
excited  to  sleep,  and  the  brightness  of  the  morning 
was  appalling  and  merciless  ;  softening  nothing,  show- 
ing everything  terribly  distinct  and  clear.  To  go  to 
Roger  and  seek  Lily  there  appeared  to  him  more  futile 
than  even  he  had  felt  it  to  be  at  first.  Lily  there  ! 
Could  anything  be  more  impossible  ?  That  Roger 
should  expose  his  wife  that  was  to  be  to  the  faint- 
est remark,  that  he  should  subject  her  to  any  miscon- 
struction, that  he  could  even  have  supposed  it  within 
the  bounds  of  possibility  that  Lily  would  consent  to 
go  with  him,  Edmund  now  knew  was  preposterous. 
He  had  known  it  all  along,  but  from  pure  pity  of  the 
misery  of  the  family  he  had  allowed  himself  to  think 
that  perhaps  for  once  the  impossible  might  have  hap- 
pened. He  now  felt  that  it  could  not  be  so.  But  on 
the  other  side,  if  Nina  was  right !  The  Mitfords  had 
no  delusions  in  respect  to  each  other ;  at  least  there 
was  none  so  far  as  regarded  Stephen.  Stephen  was 
the  member  of  the  household  whose  course  of  action 
had  always  been  most  certain  to  the  others.  He 
would  do  what  was  for  his  own  pleasure  and  his  own 
interest.  He  professed  no  other  creed.  What  he 
liked,  what  suited  him,  was  what  he  did :  and  if  he 
chose  to  gather  that  humble  flower,  what  was  it  to  any 
one  ?  He  would  do  it  without  any  after  -  thought. 
Was  it  not  only  too  possible  that  he  had  corrupted 
Lily  even  before  she  left  her  father's  house?  Ed- 
mund set  his  teeth,  with  something  of  the  feeling, 
though  the  culprit  was  his  brother,  which  had  made 
poor  Ford  in  his  passion  crush  the  hat  which  was  in 
his  hands.  "  I  would  wring  his  damned  neck  !  "  Ed- 
mund, with  a  passion  of  indignation  and  righteous 


CARRYING   EVIL    TIDINGS.  329 

wrath  in  his  heart,  felt  that  he  too  could  do  the  same. 
And  how  could  he  hold  back  the  miserable  father, 
whatever  he  did  in  his  anguish  ?  If  Stephen  had  not 
corrupted  her,  then  he  had  betrayed  her.  Poor  Lily ! 
Poor  flower  of  folly,  trained  to  her  destruction  !  He 
thought  with  a  kind  of  rage  of  all  concerned,  from  his 
own  mother,  who  had  begun  that  fatal  career,  to  the 
fond,  deluded  parents,  who  had  put  their  pride  in 
their  daughter  and  brought  her  up  a  lady.  A  lady, 
and  the  gamekeeper's  daughter,  —  too  good  for  her 
own  people,  not  good  enough  for  the  others,  destined 
to  trouble  from  her  cradle,  devoted  to  misery  and 
shame  !  Poor  Lily,  it  was  no  fault  of  hers.  It  was 
not  by  her  will  that  she  had  been  separated  from  the 
honest  rustic  lover  who  would  have  made  her  father's 
daughter  a  good  husband,  had  it  been  left  to  nature. 
The  gardener,  with  his  little  learning,  his  superior 
pretensions,  his  pleasant  house  and  work,  —  how 
happy  Ford's  daughter  might  have  been  in  such  a 
simple  possible  promotion  !  Whereas  now,  the  ruin 
of  one  brother  or  the  prey  of  another,  —  was  this  all 
her  harmless  vanity,  her  foolish  training,  her  fatal 
beauty,  had  brought  her?  To  bloom  like  a  flower, 
and  to  be  thrown  away  like  one,  and  perish,  trodden 
underfoot.  Edmund's  heart  was  sore  with  these 
thoughts.  He  had  come  to  help,  but  how  could  he 
help  ?  Could  he  take  her  back  to  these  poor  people, 
stained  and  shamed,  her  glory  and  her  sweetness 
gone?  Would  she  go  with  him,  even,  abandoning 
the  delight  of  a  life  of  gayety  and  noise  and  so-called 
pleasure,  to  return  to  the  wretchedness  of  the  home 
she  had  left  and  the  name  she  had  covered  with 
shame  ?  Poor  Lily,  poor  Lily  !  His  heart  bled  for 
her,  the  victim  of  the  folly  of  so  many  others  more 
than  of  her  own. 


330  THE   SECOND  SON. 

As  soon  as  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  he  went  to 
Roger's  chambers,  which  he  had  always  shared,  and 
in  which,  now  that  the  day  was  fully  astir  and  awake, 
he  had  his  own  room  to  retire  to,  to  prepare  himself 
for  an  interview  which  he  dreaded  more  and  more 
as  it  approached.  Though  half  a  day  seemed 
to  have  passed  since  Edmund's  arrival,  it  was  still 
early,  and  Roger  was  not  yet  visible.  His  letters 
were  on  the  breakfast-table  ready  for  him,  one  in  Mr. 
Mitford's  well-known  hand,  which  Edmund  perceived 
with  a  sensation  of  impatience  almost  insupportable  ; 
thinking  of  Stephen  promoted  to  Roger's  place,  of 
Stephen  guilty  and  cruel  in  the  place  of  his  honorable 
and  innocent  brother,  and  of  the  unhappy  girl  who 
stood  between  them,  for  whom  Roger  was  suffering 
without  blame,  and  upon  whose  ruin  Stephen  would 
stand  triumphant.  Could  such  things  be  ?  It  was 
all  he  could  do  to  restrain  himself,  not  to  seize  upon 
his  father's  letter  and  tear  it  into  a  thousand  pieces  ; 
but  what  would  it  matter?  His  father,  Edmund 
knew  in  his  heart,  would  forgive  Stephen's  fault, 
but  not  Roger's.  It  made  no  difference.  Lily  de- 
stroyed would  not  stand  in  the  younger  brother's  way, 
while  Lily  honored  and  beloved  would  ruin  Roger. 
It  was  horrible,  but  it  was  true. 

When  Roger  appeared,  he  came  up  to  Edmund 
almost  with  enthusiasm,  with  a  sparkle  of  pleasure 
in  his  eyes.  "  I  thought,  somehow,  I  should  see 
you  soon,"  he  said  ;  "  it  seemed  natural  you  should 
come  after  the  one  who  was  down  on  his  luck,"  and 
he  grasped  his  brother's  hand  with  an  unusual  ef- 
fusion. Though  this  was  all  that  was  said,  they  were 
both  a  little  moved,  —  Edmund,  as  he  felt,  with  better 
reason,  for  how  he  was  to  make  known  his  trouble 


CARRYING  EVIL    TIDINGS.  331 

now  he  could  not  tell.  The  moment  he  saw  Roger, 
all  doubt  of  him  disappeared  from  his  mind.  To 
have  asked  him  where  Lily  was,  or  if  he  knew  any- 
thing of  her,  would  have  been  an  insult.  He  had  felt 
this  with  waverings  from  the  first,  but  he  had  no  waver- 
ing on  the  subject  now.  Roger,  too,  had  a  great  deal 
of  excitement  about  him,  which  took  the  form  of  ela- 
tion, and  even  gayety :  smiles  danced  in  his  eyes ;  he 
laughed,  as  he  spoke,  for  nothing,  for  mere  pleasure. 
"I  hope  you  got  my  letter,"  he  said;  "but  you  could 
not,  I  fear,  since  you  must  have  started  last  night/' 

"  I  got  no  letter.  I  was  —  anxious  to  see  you  —  to 
know  —  I  suppose  you  have  been  arranging  things." 

"  So  well  that  I  don't  understand  how  I  can  have 
been  so  successful  the  first  try.  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  everything  that  was  discouraging.  You 
know,  people  say  that  when  you  want  anything  very 
much,  that  is  precisely  the  time  when  you  don't  get  it. 
But  I  Ve  had  a  different  experience.  I  went  to  see 
Hampton  yesterday.  I  thought  he  was  the  man,  if 
there  was  anything  to  be  had :  but  you  '11  never  be- 
lieve what  he  's  going  to  do.  They  're  coming  into 
office,  you  know.  The  excellent  fellow  offered  me  the 
post  of  his  private  secretary.  What  do  you  think, 
Ned,  —  private  secretary  to  a  cabinet  minister,  the 
very  first  try  one  makes !  " 

"  I  am  very  glad,  Roger  ;  but  it  will  be  hard  work, 
and  you  're  not  used  to  that." 

"  Work  !  what  does  that  matter  ?  I  shall  delight 
in  it,  and  there  is  no  telling  what  it  may  lead  to.  I 
never  thought  I  should  fall  into  public  life  in  this 
way  ;  but  I  have  always  had  a  fancy  for  it,  one  time 
or  other,  don't  you  know  ?  " 

Edmund  did   not   know ;   indeed,   he   thought  he 


332  THE   SECOND  SON. 

knew  the  reverse,  and  that  his  brother  had  aimed  at 
a  life  untrauimeled  by  any  such  confinement.  But  he 
did  not  say  so.  "  It  is  a  capital  beginning,"  he  said. 

"  I  should  think  it  was !  I  never  hoped  for  any- 
thing of  the  kind :  but  I  have  a  feeling,"  said  Roger, 
with  again  a  little  joyous  laugh,  "  that  my  luck  is  go- 
ing to  turn,  Ned.  I  've  had  a  good  long  spell  of  bad ; 
I  have  some  good  owing  me,  and  I  feel  that  it 's  com- 
ing. Why  don't  you  say  something,  you  sulky  fellow  ? 
1  believe  you  're  not  half  pleased." 

"  I  am  pleased,  as  long  as  it  pleases  you.  It  is  not 
the  life  I  should  have  planned  for  you,  but  if  you 
think  you  will  like  it  "  — 

"  Think !  I  don't  think,  I  know  :  it  will  give  me 
occupation  and  something  serious  to  think  of.  A 
man  wants  that  when  he  settles  down.  I  wrote  to 
Lily,  too,"  he  said,  his  voice  softening,  "  putting 
everything  before  her." 

And  then  there  was  a  blank  silence  for  a  moment, 
one  of  those  pauses  full  of  meaning,  upon  which  the 
most  unsuspecting  can  scarcely  deceive  themselves. 
Edmund  did  not  so  much  as  look  at  his  brother,  whom 
he  was  about  to  strike  with  so  cruel  a  blow. 

"  Well,"  Roger  said,  after  a  moment,  "  speak  out ; 
what  have  you  got  to  say?  I  know  there  is  some- 
thing. Let  me  have  it  without  more  ado." 

"  It  is  not  so  easy  to  speak  out,"  returned  Edmund. 

"  Why,  Ned  !  You  forget  that  I  know  it  already. 
My  father  has  done  what  he  threatened.  He  has  put 
me  out  of  the  succession.  Do  you  think  I  did  not  know 
he  would  keep  his  word  ?  And  you  have  got  it,  old 
fellow,"  said  Roger,  putting  out  his  hand,  "  and  I  am 
quite  satisfied.  I  wish  you  had  got  my  letter.  What 
England  expects  of  you  now  is  that  you  should  marry 


CARRYING  EVIL    TIDINGS.  333 

Elizabeth,  and  live  happy  ever  after.  Did  you  think 
I  should  grudge  it  to  you,  Ned  ?  " 

Edmund  listened  to  all  this  with  a  perfectly  blank 
face.  It  sounded  in  his  ears  like  something  flat  and 
fictitious,  without  interest,  without  meaning.  He 
grasped  the  hand  which  his  brother  held  out  to  him 
across  the  corner  of  the  table,  and  held  it  fast.  It 
seemed  as  if  that  little  speech  which  Roger  made  him 
would  never  be  done.  Edmund  held  the  hand  after 
Roger's  voice  ceased,  and  again  there  was  another 
pause.  Then  Edmund  heard  his  own  voice  say,  as  if 
it  were  some  one  else  speaking,  "  When  did  you  last 
see  Lily  Ford  ?  " 

"  See  Lily?"  Roger  looked  at  him  with  wondering 
eyes.  Then  he  said,  with  a  little  impatience,  "  I  have 
not  seen  her  since  the  night  before  I  left  home.  You 
know  that.  She  would  not  see  me,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  a  panic  about  her  father ;  but  I  have  written, 
I  have  set  everything  before  her  —  Ned,  what  is  it  ? 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  She  did  not  —  come  with  you  to  London  ?  " 

"  Ned  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Have  you  taken 
leave  of  your  senses  ?  Come  with  me  to  London,  the 
girl  who  is  to  be  my  wife  ?  " 

"  I  told  them  so,"  said  Edmund.  He  could  not 
lift  his  eyes  and  look  Roger  in  the  face. 

"  You  told  them  so  ?  Edmund,"  said  Roger,  laying 
his  hand  upon  his  brother's  arm,  "  you  have  something 
to  tell  me,  something  you  are  afraid  to  say.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  out  with  it !  What  is  it  ?  Something 
that  I  do  not  expect?" 

"  Roger,"  said  his  brother  faltering,  "  Roger,  Lily 
Ford  disappeared  from  her  home  the  day  you  left. 
They  do  not  know  where  she  is.  nor  what  has  become 


334  THE  SECOND  SON. 

of  her.  They  thought  she  might  have  come  to  Lon- 
don with  you.  I  told  them  that  was  impossible. 
They  are  heart-broken  ;  they  don't  know  where  she  is. 
Roger  received  this  blow  full  in  his  breast.  He 
had  not  feared  anything,  he  had  no  preparation  for  it. 
It  came  upon  him  like  the  fire  of  a  shooting  party, 
when  a  man  is  condemned  to  die.  The  solid  earth 
swam  round  him.  He  heard  the  hesitating  words 
come  one  by  one,  singing  through  the  air  like  bullets ; 
and  yet  he  did  not  know  even  now  what  it  meant. 


XXXI. 

THREE   BROTHERS. 

IN  the  end,  however,  this  dreadful  news,  which  Ed- 
mund had  thought  would  kill  his  brother,  had  little  or 
no  effect  upon  him.  The  idea  that  Lily  had  in  any 
way  compromised  herself,  that  anything  disgraceful 
could  be  involved,  or  that  there  was  wrong  in  it,  was 
one  which  Roger  was  incapable  of  receiving.  He  was 
stunned  for  the  moment  by  the  mere  wonder,  but  re- 
covered himself  almost  immediately.  "  And  she  left 
no  letter,  gave  them  no  clue  ? "  he  said,  gravely 
enough,  yet  with  a  smile  breaking  through  beneath 
the  seriousness  of  his  lips. 

"  None,  whatever,"  replied  Edmund,  watching  his 
brother  keenly,  with  the  strangest  new  suspicions  and 
doubts  springing  up  in  his  mind. 

Roger  said  nothing  for  a  minute  or  two  ;  and  then, 
shaking  his  head,  "  What  unreasoning  creatures  wo- 
men are,  the  best  of  them  !  Do  you  think  she  could 
suppose  it  possible  that  I  would  be  shaken  off  like 
that?" 

"  Shaken  off  —  like  what  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Ned : 
you  look  as  if  you  were  in  great  trouble  about  some- 
thing. Not  about  this,  I  hope.  Don't  you  see  it  is  as 
clear  as  daylight  ?  She  is  frightened  of  me,  poor  dar- 
ling. She  thinks  her  father  will  lose  his  place,  and  his 
home,  and  all  his  comforts.  It  is  just  like  a  girl's 


336  THE  SECOND  SOX. 

inconsequent  way.  If  she  removes  herself  out  of  the 
question,  she  thinks  all  will  be  well.  No  doubt  she  is 
hiding  somewhere,  with  her  poor  little  heart  beating, 
wondering  if  we  will  really  let  her  get  lost  and  sacri- 
fice herself.  My  poor,  little,  silly,  sweet  Lily !  She 
has  read  too  many  novels,  no  doubt :  she  thinks  that 's 
the  best  way,  —  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  herself." 

Edmund  looked  with  a  certain  awe  at  his  brother's 
face,  lit  up  with  the  tenderest  smile.  Roger  was  not 
thinking  of  any  danger  to  her,  nor  of  how  other 
people  were  affected,  nor  of  anything  but  the  roman- 
tic, generous  girl,  following,  perhaps,  some  example 
in  a  novel,  as  little  reasonable  as  any  heroine  of  ro- 
mance. And  was  not  she  a  heroine  of  romance,  the 
true  romance  which  never  fails  or  is  out  of  fashion, 

—  and  was  not  this  unreason  the  most  exquisite  thing 
in  the  world  ?     He  did  not  observe  that  his  brother 
made  no  answer ;  that  Edmund  gave  him  one  wonder- 
ing glance  only,  and  then  averted  his  eyes.     Roger 
required   no    answer ;    his  mind   wa^    altogether   ab- 
sorbed in  this  intelligence,  which    ne  received  in  so 
different  a  way  from  that  wrhich  his  brother  feared. 

"  We  must  n't  leave  her  too  long  in  that  thought," 
said  Roger,  cheerfully.  "  It 's  curious  how  sweet  that 
want  of  reason  is,  —  don't  you  think  so  ?  No,  you  're 
too  matter  of  fact,  Ned;  and  besides,  you  have  not 
fallen  under  the  spell.  What  do  they  think?  Or 
rather,  where  do  they  think  she  can  have  taken  refuge, 

—  with  some  old  aunt,  or  old  friend,  or  something  ? 
They  must  have  made  some  guess." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  They  thought,  and  they  almost 
persuaded  me  to  think,  that  you  had  brought  her  here 
with  you." 

"  I  bring  her  here  with  me  !  " 


THREE  BROTHERS.  337 

"  I  knew,  of  course,  it  was  absurd,"  said  Edmund, 
averting  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  a  kind  of  unreason  that  is  not  sweet," 
said  Roger  quickly.  "  What  did  they  suppose  I  could 
have  done  that  for  ?  And  it  was  so  likely  she  would 
have  come  with  me,  her  only  half -accepted  —  when  it 
is  evident  it 's  to  escape  me,  to  sacrifice  herself,  that 
she  's  gone  away."  He  got  up,  and  began  to  pace  about 
the  room.  "  This  becomes  a  little  disagreeable,"  he 
said.  "  With  me  !  What  a  strange  idea  !  The  most 
sensitive,  delicate  —  why,  you  might  almost  say  pru- 
dish —  And  why,  in  the  name  of  all  that 's  ridicu- 
lous, could  I  have  wished  her  to  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  felt,"  Edmund  said,  but  still  with 
averted  eyes. 

"  Ah,  Ned,"  said  Roger,  "  that 's  the  worst  of  it. 
These  good,  honest  people !  things  that  would  horrify 
us  seem  natural  to  them.  They  would  see  nothing  out 
of  the  question  in  such  an  impossible  proceeding,  — 
to  show  her  London,  perhaps,  or  consult  her  about 
our  future  arrangements  ?  "  He  laughed,  with  a  faint 
awakening  of  uneasiness.  "  And  all  the  time  she  is 
in  some  nook  in  the  country,  some  old  woman's  cot- 
tage, thinking  how  clever  she  has  been  to  hide  herself 
from  everybody,  but  yet  perhaps  wondering  —  I 
wonder  if  she  is  wondering  whether  I  am  no  more 
good  than  that,  whether  I  will  let  her  go  "  —  He 
paused  a  little,  his  voice  melting  into  the  softness  of 
a  mother  with  her  child ;  then  he  said  quickly,  "  We 
must  get  at  once  the  directions  of  all  the  old  aunts." 

"  They  have  no  directions  to  give,"  observed  Ed- 
mund, in  a  low  tone ;  "  there  seems  to  be  no  one  they 
can  think  of.  And  the  strange  thing  is  that  she  ap- 
pears to  have  come  to  London  the  day  before  yester- 


338  THE  SECOND  SON. 

day,  in  the  same  train  with  you,  Roger,  —  from  Mol- 
ton  Junction,  so  far  as  1  can  make  out,  where  it 
seems  she  sent  off  a  telegram,  having  walked  there." 

"This  is  more  mysterious  than  ever,"  said  Roger, 
growing  red  under  his  eyes,  "  but  also  more  natural 
than  ever.  Of  course  she  must  have  telegraphed  to 
the  house  she  was  going  to.  Of  course  London  is  the 
way  to  everywhere ;  or  she  might  even  have  a  friend 
in  town.  Of  course  they  must  know  of  some  one. 
You  don't  mean  to  say  that  they  have  no  relations,  no 
friends,  out  of  Melcombe  ?  Come,  Edmund,"  he  said, 
giving  his  brother  a  sudden  sharp  pat  on  the  shoulder, 
"  wake  yourself  up  !  We  must  find  our  way  out  of 
this  ;  we  are  not  going  to  be  outgeneraled  by  a  simple 
girl.  How  strange,"  he  continued,  after  a  moment, 
"  that  I  did  n't  see  her  !  Now  I  think  of  it,  I  did  see 
some  one  in  the  crowd  at  Molton  who  reminded  me  — 
To  be  sure —  I  said  to  myself,  If  I  did  not  know 
she  was  safe  at  home —  And,  after  all,  I  never 
thought  of  looking  when  we  got  to  Paddington.  By 
the  way  "  — 

"What,  Roger?" 

"  It  has  just  occurred  to  me.  I  saw  Stephen  at  the 
station ;  he  was  going  to  meet  one  of  the  men  of  his 
regiment.  He  may  have  seen  her.  I  suppose  he 
knows  her,  —  by  sight,  at  least  ?  " 

"  Most  probably,"  answered  Edmund,  scarcely 
knowing  how  to  command  his  voice. 

">And  no  one  could  see  her  without  remarking  her. 
Steve  may  have  noticed,  Ned ;  he  may  have  seen 
whether  any  one  met  her,  or  what  way  she  went. 
The  moment  I  have  swallowed  my  coffee "  (which 
had  in  the  mean  time  grown  cold  on  the  table,  and 
which  was  the  only  part  of  an  ample  breakfast  which 


THREE  BROTHERS.  339 

Roger  seemed  inclined  to  touch),  "  I  '11  go  and  look 
him  up." 

"  Let  me  go,"  Edmund  suggested.  "  I  am  ready 
now ;  and  it  will  be  easier  for  me,  who  have  no  spe- 
cial interest,  to  make  inquiries  than  for  you." 

"  No  special  interest,"  said  Roger,  with  an  unsteady 
laugh.  "  If  it  did  n't  happen  to  be  my  brother  Ned's 
way  to  think  of  everybody's  interests  before  his 
own  "  — 

"  Because  I  have  none  in  particular,  you  see,"  re- 
turned Edmund,  waving  his  hand  as  he  hurried  away. 
He  was  too  glad  to  find  himself  outside  Roger's  door, 
and  under  no  further  necessity  to  veil  the  changes  of 
his  countenance.  It  had  gone  to  his  heart  like  a  sud- 
den arrow  to  hear  that  Stephen  had  been  seen  at  the 
station  going  to  meet  some  one.  Whom  was  he  going 
to  meet,  and  what  would  he  say,  and  how  reply  to  the 
questions  that  must  be  forced  upon  him?  Edmund 
had  no  faith  in  Stephen's  reply.  He  had  no  faith  in 
him  in  any  way,  nor  any  hope  of  satisfaction  from 
him.  If  only  he  could  keep  Roger  from  suspecting, 
and  prevent  any  meeting  from  which  enlightenment 
could  come ! 

Stephen  was  not  to  be  found  at  his  club,  though  it 
was  known  there  that  he  was  in  town.  He  was  not  to 
be  found  at  the  rooms  where  he  generally  lived  when 
in  London.  The  people  there  knew  nothing  of  Captain 
Mitford's  whereabouts  ;  they  did  not  believe  he  was  in 
town  ;  they  had  seen  nothing  of  him :  from  which  Ed- 
rnund  drew  the  conclusion,  which  was  far  from  reas- 
suring, that  Stephen  had  established  himself  some- 
where else.  He  went  back  to  the  club  a  second  time, 
after  seeking  his  brother  in  every  other  quarter  he 
could  think  of,  and  was  again  disappointed.  But  as 


340  THE   SECOND  SON. 

he  turned  away  from  the  door,  sadly  cast  down,  and 
feeling  himself  baffled  at  every  turn,  he  met  Stephen 
coining  along  Piccadilly,  in  all  the  splendor  of  his 
town  clothes,  with  that  additional  exquisite  neatness 
of  detail  which  the  military  element  gives.  Stephen 
was  very  triumphant  to  behold,  in  his  strength  and 
fullness  of  life :  his  hair  exuberant  in  a  hundred  curls, 
his  step  spurning  the  pavement,  his  whole  appearance 
the  perfection  of  health  and  cleanness  and  superlative 
polish  and  care.  Another  man,  equally  splendid, 
brushed,  and  shaven,  and  smoothed  into  perfection, 
walked  with  liim,  and  Edmund,  in  his  country  habili- 
ments and  with  his  anxious  mind,  felt  himself  a 
shabby  shadow  beside  those  dazzling  specimens  of 
their  kind.  His  brother  was  passing  him,  with  two 
fingers  extended  to  be  shaken,  and  a  "  Hallo,  Ned  !  " 
when  Edmund  came  to  a  stand  before  him,  and  com- 
pelled him  to  pause.  Stephen's  companion  paused, 
too,  with  momentary  suspicion,  then  passed  along, 
saying  something  under  his  mustache  of  seeing  him 
again  at  the  club.  They  were  quite  near  the  club, 
and  Edmund  read  in  Stephen's  face  the  contrariety 
of  being  so  near  shelter  and  yet  caught.  For  he  saw 
in  a  moment  that  the  splendor  of  his  brother's  ap- 
pearance was  but  outside,  and  that  his  face  was  not  as 
radiant  as  his  clothes. 

"  Well,"  cried  Stephen,  "  I  thought  you  had  gone 
home,  Ned.  It  seems  to  me  you  are  getting  as  bad  as 
the  worst  of  us,  always  about  town." 

"  I  have  come  up  on  special  business,"  said  Ed- 
mund, and  he  thought  the  splendid  Stephen  winced  a 
little,  as  if  he  might  have  a  suspicion  what  that  busi- 


Really !     So  have  I,  —  with  that  feUow  that  left 


THREE  BROTHERS.  341 

us  just  now  ;  he 's  gone  to  wait  for  me  at  the  club.  I 
owe  him  a  trifle.  I  '11  see  you  another  time." 

"  My  business  is  very  much  with  you,"  replied  Ed- 
mund, "  but  I  '11  walk  with  you.  I  need  not  detain 
you." 

"  Oh,  about  the  will,"  said  his  brother,  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  heard  from  the  governor  to-day.  It 's  all  right, 
old  fellow.  I  '11  take  it  like  a  shot ;  I  've  no  delicacy. 
If  Roger  and  you  choose  to  be  a.  couple  of  fools,  what 
does  that  matter  to  me?" 

"  There  is  something  else  which  matters,  though," 
answered  Edmund,  sternly.  "  You  know  why  Roger 
is  out  of  it.  So  far  as  I  can  hear,  the  same  reason 
stands  against  you." 

"  What !  "  said  Stephen,  "  that  I  am  going  to 
marry  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Not  such  a  fool,  thank  you. 
I  've  no  more  thought  of  marrying  than  you  have,  and 
little  inclination  that  way."  His  color  heightened, 
however,  and  his  breath  quickened,  and  he  did  not 
meet  Edmund's  eye. 

"  It  is  not  marriage  ;  it  is  —  Lily  Ford." 

"  Well,"  cried  his  brother,  turning  upon  him  sharply, 
"  what  of  her?  The  little  damned  jilt ;  the  "—  He 
paused,  with  an  evident  sense  of  having  committed 
himself,  and  added  angrily,  "  What  the  devil  has  she 
got  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"  Much ;  for  she  belongs  to  our  immediate  sur- 
roundings, and  my  father  will  never  put  up  with  an 
injury  to  a  person  who  is  really  one  of  his  household. 
She  must  be  restored  to  her  family  at  once." 

"  Restored ! "  exclaimed  Stephen,  with  a  harsh  laugh. 
"  You  speak  at  your  ease,  my  friend  Ned.  You  must 
have  a  thing  before  you  can  restore  it.  I  've  had 
nothing  to  say  to  the  lady,  and  therefore  I  can't  give 
her  back." 


342  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  We  had  better  go  somewhere  where  we  can  talk 
with  more  safety.  These  are  not  subjects  for  the  club 
or  Piccadilly." 

"  Piccadilly  has  heard  as  much  as  most  places,  and 
so  has  the  club  ;  and  1  don't  know  what  there  is  to 
talk  about." 

"  Stephen,  where  is  Lily  Ford  ?  " 

Stephen  swore  a  big  oath  under  his  breath. 
"  What  have  I  to  do  with  Lily  Ford  ?  If  you  are 
trying  to  put  blame  upon  me,  mind  what  you  are 
about,  Ned ;  I  'm  not  a  safe  man  to  meddle  with. 
If  you  mean  to  spoil  my  luck  with  got-up  sto- 
ries "  — 

"  She  came  to  London  on  Tuesday  night,"  inter- 
rupted ^dniund,  abstractly,  as  if  he  were  summing 
up  evidence,  "  and  you  met  her  at  the  station.  Where 
is  she  now  ?  If  you  will  tell  me  that,  I  will  ask  you 
no  further  questions." 

'*  Who  told  you  I  met  her  at  the  station  ?  You  are 
making  up  fables  against  me." 

"  Stephen,  where  is  Lily  Ford  ?  " 

It  was  in  Piccadilly,  with  all  the  people  passing ; 
impossible  to  make  any  scene  there,  had  life  and 
death  been  in  it.  Edmund's  voice  was  low,  but  Ste- 
phen had  no  habit  of  subduing  his  tones  or  control- 
ling himself,  and  he  was  already  excited.  The  fury 
of  a  man  baffled,  disappointed,  tricked,  —  for  so  he 
thought  it,  —  whose  victim  had  turned  the  tables 
on  him,  and  placed  him  in  the  position  of  a  fool 
instead  of  that  of  a  scoundrel,  raged  within  him, 
and  it  was  a  relief  to  vent  it  upon  some  one.  He 
griped  his  brother's  arm  with  a  sudden  force  which 
took  Edmund  by  surprise  and  made  him  stagger,  and 
he  swore  again  by  the  highest  name.  "  By !  I 


THREE  BROTHERS.  343 

don't  know.  And  if  I  did  I  should  n  't  tell  you.  I  '11 
break  the  head  of  any  man  who  asks  me  such  a  ques- 
tion again.  Stand  out  of  the  way  !  " 

Edmund's  arm  was  raised  instinctively  to  resist  the 
push  aside  which  his  brother  gave  him,  as  Stephen  re- 
leased him  from  his  grasp.  But  already  the  alterca- 
tion had  caught  the  eyes  of  two  or  three  passers-by, 
and  Edmund  had  an  Englishman's  dread  of  exposure 
and  horror  of  making  an  exhibition  of  himself.  He 
stepped  back,  answering  only  with  a  look  the  inso- 
lent gaze  which  Stephen  fixed  upon  him,  and  in  which 
there  was  an  uneasy  inquiry,  an  alarm  which  neutral- 
ized the  defiance.  It  was  not  a  light  matter  to  sub- 
mit to  such  rough  treatment,  but  a  quarrel  in  the  open 
street,  and  above  all  in  Piccadilly,  was  the  last  thing 
in  the  world  to  be  thought  of,  as  Stephen,  cowardly  in 
his  audacious  selfishness,  well  knew.  Edmund  let  his 
brother  brush  past,  and  after  a  moment  turned  back 
in  the  other  direction,  silent  while  his  heart  burned. 
Stephen  was  fully  aware  that  Edmund  would  make 
no  public  quarrel,  and  took  advantage  of  it,  as  bul- 
lies do. 

Edmund  had  said  more  than  he  was  sure  of,  with- 
out premeditation,  in  the  haste  and  heat  of  his  first 
address  to  his  brother.  "You  met  her  at  the  sta- 
tion." He  had  not  been  aware  that  he  meant  to  say 
this  until  he  heard  himself  saying  it.  But  h6  had 
no  doubt  now  that  Stephen  was  guilty  ;  the  very  ab- 
sence of  all  hesitation  in  his  response,  his  instant  com- 
prehension of  the  question,  made  it  apparent  that  Ste- 
phen had  nothing  to  learn  in  respect  to  Lily's  flight. 
And  God  help  the  unfortunate  girl  if  she  were  in 
his  ruthless  hands  J  God  help  the  miserable  parents, 
to  whom  Edmund  could  not  have  a  word  of  comfort 
to  say ! 


344  THE   SECOND   SON. 

His  heart  was  very  heavy  as  he  went  along  amid 
the  stream  of  people  flowing  towards  the  park.  It 
was  afternoon  by  this  time,  and  the  carriages  had  be- 
gun to  follow  each  other  in  a  long  line.  Everything 
looked  bright  and  gay,  with  that  impression  of  endless 
prosperity,  wealth,  ease,  and  luxury  which  few  other 
scenes  convey  to  a  similar  degree.  No  doubt,  among 
that  luxurious  crowd  there  was  no  lack  of  sad  his- 
tories, aching  hearts,  unhappy  parents,  and  ruined 
children ;  but  the  glitter  and  splendor  seemed  to 
carry  the  misery  of  his  thoughts  deeper  into  his  heart. 

Until  all  at  once  he  woke  to  a  terror  near  to  him- 
self, a  danger  which  touched  him  more  than  anything 
that  had  happened,  or  could  happen,  to  Lily  Ford. 


XXXII. 

STEPHEN'S  ANSWER. 

THIS  terror  which  seized  Edmund  did  not  come 
upon  him  for  the  first  time  :  he  had  already  perceived 
the  supreme  danger  of  making  known  his  suspicions 
of  Stephen  to  Roger ;  but  there  had  been  enough  in 
the  inquisition  which  was  forced  into  his  hands,  and 
the  question  whether  or  not  Stephen  were  really  guilty, 
to  distract  his  thoughts.  Now,  however,  that  he  must 
carry  back  to  Roger  Stephen's  disavowal,  a  disavowal 
which  could,  he  said  to  himself,  convince  nobody,  and 
which  was  of  something  quite  different  from  the  sim- 
ple question  which  Roger  had  intended  to  put,  a  real 
panic  seized  upon  him.  Lily's  disappearance  was  not 
an  event  which  could  be  forgotten.  It  was  not  a  thing 
of  the  moment,  which  could  pass  out  of  recollection, 
with  all  its  attendant  circumstances,  when  its  novelty 
was  exhausted.  Had  it  been  the  father  and  mother 
alone,  poor,  helpless,  miserable  people,  they  might 
have  been  silenced  somehow,  and  the  cause  of  this 
misfortune  concealed.  But  Roger  would  leave  no 
stone  unturned  ;  he  would  resolutely  clear  up  the  mys- 
tery, and  seek  the  girl  whom  he  had  loved,  so  bitterly 
to  his  own  cost,  until  at  least  he  had  found  that  the 
Lily  of  his  dreams  was  lost  forever.  Edmund  shud- 
dered to  think  what  would  befall  his  brother  when  he 
made  this  discovery :  but  more  terrible  still  was  the 
thought  of  what  would  happen  when,  in  that  search, 


346  THE  SECOND  SON. 

Roger  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  man  who 
bore  his  own  name,  his  father's  son,  his  own  flesh  and 
blood. 

In  a  state  of  distraction,  the  third  of  the  sons  of 
Melcombe,  he  who  must  stand  between  the  two  thus 
made  deadly  enemies,  divided  by  a  wrong  which  could 
never  be  forgotten  or  forgiven,  dwelt  upon  this  in- 
evitable discovery,  and  hurrying  through  the  streets, 
unconscious  of  the  crowd,  turned  over  and  over  in  his 
confused  mind  every  expedient  by  which  it  could  be 
averted.  A  thousand  schemes  passed  wildly  before 
him,  only  to  be  rejected.  He  laughed  within  himself 
at  the  futile  suggestion  that  Roger  might  be  persuaded 
to  go  away,  to  withdraw  from  the  scene  of  his  loss, 
that  first  thought  which  occurs  to  every  Englishman 
in  trouble.  It  was  not  so  long  since  he  had  himself 
hurried  his  brother  over  the  banal  road  into  the  com- 
monplace resorts  of  weariness  and  wretchedness.  That 
was  not  to  be  done  again ;  and  on  what  pretense,  till 
Lily  was  proved  unworthy,  could  Roger  be  driven  from 
the  new  life  he  had  planned  ?  And  how  was  Lily  to 
be  accounted  for  without  the  unveiling  of  that  most 
horrible  complication  of  all,  and  the  revelation  of  the 
destroyer  of  Roger's  hopes  and  dreams  in  his  brother  ? 

Edmund  felt  himself  paralyzed  by  this  terror,  which 
he  saw  no  way  of  escaping.  He  was  as  helpless  as  he 
was  panic-stricken,  and  wandered  about  for  the  rest  of 
the  day,  with  no  aim  but  to  keep  out  of  Roger's  way, 
and  no  power  to  originate  any  expedient  by  which  he 
might  stave  off  the  danger. 

At  last  the  moment  came  which  could  not  have 
been  long  avoided.  He  met  Roger  at  the  end  of  the 
street  in  which  their  rooms  were,  about  the  hour  of 
dinner,  and  for  a  moment  hoped  that  he  was  going 


STEPHEN'S  ANSWER.  347 

out  to  fill  some  engagement,  and  that  there  might  still 
be  a  breathing  time. 

Roger  had  just  come  out,  dressed  for  dinner,  with  a 
light  overcoat  over  his  evening  clothes  ;  and  it  seemed 
to  Edmund,  who  was  still  in  his  country  suit,  not  fit 
for  London,  and  sadly  worn  out  and  wretched,  that 
the  mere  fact  of  his  careful  dress  showed  that  his 
brother  had  shaken  off  the  impression  of  the  bad 
news.  But  when  he  saw  more  distinctly,  by  the  un- 
certain evening  light,  Roger's  face,  white  and  rigid, 
with  the  upper  lip  closed  down  upon  the  lower,  as  if 
made  of  iron,  he  was  quickly  undeceived.  As  soon 
as  they  met,  Roger  put  his  arm  within  Edmund's,  and 
turned  him  round  in  the  direction  in  which  he  was 
himself  going,  with  that  ignoring  of  his  brother's  in- 
clinations, even  of  his  weariness  and  bodily  needs, 
which  is  in  some  cases  the  highest  compliment  one 
man  can  pay  to  another. 

"  Ned,"  he  began,  without  any  preface,  "  the  more 
I  think  of  it,  the  more  wretched  it  makes  me.  Was 
she  a  girl  to  disappear  like  that,  leaving  her  people  in 
anxiety  ?  Besides,  what  motive  was  there  for  any 
such  mystery  ?  She  might  have  let  them  know  some- 
how, —  she  must  have  done  so.  Ned,  my  Lily  has 
been  spirited  away  !  " 

Edmund  was  taken  by  surprise.  "  No,  no  —  who 
would  do  that  ?  "  he  asked,  bewildered  by  the  sugges- 
tion. 

"  Who  ?  Any  one.  Some  madman  who  had  seen 
her.  We  think  we  have  outlived  such  things,  but  we 
have  n't,  Ned.  Passion  is  as  mad  as  ever  it  was.  Or 
even  to  get  her  out  of  my  way,  my  father  "  — 

"  Impossible  !  Such  a  thing  would  never  enter  his 
mind !  " 


348  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  There  .is  nothing  impossible  !  "  returned  Roger, 
with  nervous  heat,  "  except  that  my  Lily  should  go  — 
should  consent "  —  The  deep  murmur  of  his  voice 
ceased  in  something  inarticulate,  a  note  of  such  im- 
measurable pain,  of  horrible  doubt  hidden  under  words 
of  certainty,  that  Edmund  felt  all  his  fears  realized. 
Then  Roger  gave  himself  a  shake,  as  if  to  get  rid  of 
some  nightmare,  and  asked,  with  an  air  of  sudden 
awakening,  "  Did  Stephen  see  her  ?  Did  he  notice 
anything  —  which  way  she  went  ?  " 

"  No,  he  noticed  nothing." 

Something  in  Edmund's  tone  made  Roger  look  at 
him  keenly.  "  lie  must  have  seen  her.  I  could  bring 
it  to  his  recollection,  —  the  night  we  met  and  the  cir- 
cumstances, which  of  course  you  did  not  know." 

"  Don't,  Roger,  for  Heaven's  sake !  Why  should 
you  ask  him  again?  Don't  you  believe  me?  He 
knows  nothing.  Don't  let  us  bring  in  any  one  more." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,"  said  Roger,  with  mo- 
mentary acquiescence  ;  then,  after  a  pause,  he  asked, 
"  Did  he  know  her  —  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  replied  Edmund  hastily,  feeling 
that  the  intolerableness  of  the  situation  began  to  af- 
fect his  nerves  and  temper.  "  I  suppose  he  must 
have  known  her  by  sight :  I  don't  know.  What  is 
the  use  of  bringing  him  into  it  ?  He  can  tell  us  noth- 
ing." 

Roger  looked  at  his  brother  with  a  dawning  sus- 
picion in  his  eyes.  "  I  don't  think  you  are  just  to 
Stephen,"  he  remarked.  "  I  am  going  to  see  for  my- 
self." 

"  Roger,"  said  Edmund,  making  use,  like  a  woman, 
of  the  weariness  and  exhaustion  which  he  felt,  — 
though,  like  a  woman,  he  could  have  disguised  and 


STEPHEN'S  ANSWER.  349 

suppressed  them,  had  not  the  other  way  afforded  a 
possibility  of  deliverance,  —  "I  wish  you  could  come 
with  me  first,  and  get  me  some  dinner.  I  am  fairly 
worn  out.  It  has  not  been  a  good  time  for  me,  these 
last  few  days,  and  1  have  been  wandering  about  from 
one  place  to  another  "  — 

"  How  selfish  I  am,"  interrupted  Roger,  "  forget- 
ting all  you  have  been  doing,  and  even  to  ask  you  — 
Come  along,  Ned  ;  we  '11  get  something  at  the  club." 

The  penalty  of  this  expedient  was,  that  Edmund 
had  to  eat  a  prolonged  dinner,  which  he  needed,  in- 
deed, but  for  which  he  had  no  appetite,  and  which  he 
allowed  to  linger  on,  through  course  after  course  while 
Roger  sat  opposite  to  him,  eating  nervously  a  piece  of 
bread,  drinking  the  wine  that  was  poured  out  for  him 
without  even  observing  what  it  was,  sending  away 
dish  after  dish  with  a  half  shudder  of  disgust,  and 
with  the  wonder  of  a  preoccupied  mind  that  his 
brother  should  be  capable  of  dining  in  so  prolonged  a 
way  at  such  a  moment.  Edmund  had  to  pay  this 
penalty,  and  accepted  it  with  what  fortitude  he  could. 
He  calculated,  while  he  sat  having  everything  handed 
to  him,  that  by  this  time,  probably,  Stephen  was  dis- 
posed of  for  the  evening ;  dining  out,  perhaps  ;  or, 
which  was  more  likely,  —  the  horrible  thought  ob- 
truded itself,  even  though  it  was  so  essential  that  he 
should  give  Roger  no  clue  to  the  nature  of  his  thoughts, 
—  that  Stephen  might  be  at  this  moment  by  the  side 
of  the  deceived  and  lost  creature  to  whom  Roger,  with 
his  white  face  of  anxiety,  was  still  holding  loyally  as 
his  bride. 

"  Now,"  said  Roger,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  if  you  are 
satisfied,  Ned,  don't  you  think  we  might  go  ?  " 

If  he  were  satisfied  !     He  tried  to  laugh,  too,  and 


350  THE  SECOND  SON. 

answered,  "  I  had  eaten  nothing  all  day.  Don't  you 
think  it  is  a  little  too  late  now  ?  " 

"  I  think  —  You  shall  go  home  and  go  to  bed, 
Ned.  You  're  worn  out :  and  it  cannot  have  the  same 
overwhelming  interest  for  you  as  for  me,  —  though 
you're  very  good,"  said  Roger.  It  was  Edmund's 
role  to  have  good  intentions  attributed  to  him.  He 
took  care  not  even  to  smile,  not  to  groan,  as  he  got 
up  from  the  table  at  which  he  had  been  working  so 
hard  to  make  the  meeting  he  dreaded  impossible. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  'm  not  going  to  bed.  I  'm 
going  with  you,  Roger,  wherever  you  go,  —  provided 
it  is  not  among  any  of  your  fine  friends,  in  this 
garb." 

"  My  fine  friends  !  "  exclaimed  Roger,  with  indig- 
nant astonishment.  "  Can  you  suppose  me  capable 
of  going  anywhere  —  anywhere !  I  thought  you  knew 
better  what  this  is  to  me.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  ? 
It  is  life  or  death !  If  anything  has  happened  to 
her  —  My  God  !  " 

The  most  tragic  scenes,  the  most  tragic  words,  are 
often  mixed  up  in  our  strange  life  with  the  most  petty 
and  common,  and  desperate  appeals  to  the  last  Arbiter 
of  all  things  rise  out  of  the  depths  of  wretched  hearts 
over  the  broken  meats  of  a  disordered  table.  There 
is  something  more  heart-rending  in  them,  under  such 
circumstances,  than  when  there  is  no  jar  of  the  igno- 
ble matters  of  every  day  in  the  despair  and  passion. 
Roger  standing  over  the  table  at  which  his  brother 
had  dined,  in  his  correct  evening  dress,  with  his  mis- 
erable face ;  the  brown  bread  which  he  had  been 
crumbling  to  pieces  before  him  ;  his  overcoat,  which 
he  had  not  cared  to  take  off,  hanging  open  ;  the  back- 
ground of  cheerful  parties  dining ;  the  murmur  of 


STEPHEN'S  ANSWER.  351 

cheerful  talk  around,  made  such  a  combination  as 
would  have  smitten  the  hardest  heart.  He  had  come 
to  that,  that  he  had  begun  to  acknowledge  the  possibil- 
ity of  something  having  happened  to  Lily :  something 
which  could  not  but  be  disastrous,  horrible ;  some- 
thing which  might  make  an  end  of  that  which  no 
other  power  on  earth  could  have  ended,  for  which  he 
had  been  prepared  to  sacrifice  everything  that  could 
be  called  life.  There  was  a  tremor  in  him  which  was 
visible,  even  though  he  was  nervously  erect  and  steady, 
in  the  outline  of  his  figure,  —  a  faint,  nervous  trick  of 
movement  which  he  could  not  restrain,  and  of  which, 
indeed,  he  was  unconscious.  He  put  his  hand  hastily 
upon  Edmund's  arm,  as  they  went  out  together.  It 
was  dry  and  burning,  and  he  did  not  see  the  step  at 
the  door,  and  stumbled  as  they  went  out  into  the  noise 
and  bustle  of  the  street. 

Provided  only  that  Stephen  might  not  be  found 
when  they  sought  him  at  his  club !  —  for  happily  they 
could  not  seek  him  elsewhere.  Edmund  estimated 
the  chances  hurriedly,  as  they  went  along,  and  felt 
them  to  be  all  in  his  favor.  If  Lily  were  somewhere 
in  London  awaiting  her  lover,  it  was  not  possible  that 
Stephen  should  spend  the  evening  at  his  club.  But 
Edmund  was  too  anxious  and  too  unhappy  to  take  the 
comfort  out  of  this  which  he  felt  to  be  justified ;  for 
every  one  knows  how  perverse  circumstances  are,  and 
how  a  chance  which  would  have  no  importance  on  an- 
other occasion  will  often  detain  a  man,  when  his  de- 
tention for  that  uncalculated  moment  means  a  catas- 
trophe. So  inscrutable,  so  little  to  be  reckoned  upon, 
is  this  strange  life,  which  seems  the  sport  of  accidents, 
which  is  at  least  so  little  in  our  hands  to  arrange  or 
settle !  These  thoughts  went  through  Edmund's  mind 


362  THE   SECOND   SON. 

in  a  confused  torrent,  as  he  walked  with  Roger  to 
Stephen's  club,  once  more  along-  that  crowded  pave- 
ment of  Piccadilly,  where  so  many  men  like  them- 
selves were  hurrying  on  to  all  manner  of  engagements, 
and  close  to  which  so  many  carriages,  coming  and 
going,  conveyed  the  fairest  and  the  brightest  and  the 
most  distinguished  from  one  scene  of  pleasure  to  an- 
other, —  of  pleasure  woven  with  so  many  threads  of 
suffering,  of  festivity,  and  of  tragedy.  When  the 
mind  is  full  of  distress  and  anxiety,  such  ideas  come 
naturally.  It  is  perhaps  a  little  aid  in  bearing  our 
own  burdens  to  think  how  others  are  weighed  down, 
and  how  little  any  one  can  know  from  the  exterior. 

It  would  have  been,  however,  but  a  poor  observer 
who  could  not  have  perceived  that  the  two  brothers 
walking  along  from  one  club  to  another  were  bound 
on  no  common  errand.  The  faint  yet  almost  palsied 
thrill  of  nervous  movement  about  Roger,  and  Ed- 
mund's fever  of  anxiety,  were  not  sufficiently  veiled 
to  be  imperceptible  to  any  keen  eye.  Neither  of  them 
seemed  to  breathe,  as  they  approached  the  place.  Ed- 
mund, who  knew  how  well  his  own  excitement  was  justi- 
fied, could  not  quite  understand  how  it  should  have  so 
communicated  itself  to  Roger,  who  so  far  as  he  knew 
was  unaware  of  any  foundation  for  it.  He  pressed 
his  brother's  arm,  as  they  went  up  to  the  open  door. 
"  Roger,  you  '11  take  care  not  to  let  him  pick  a  quar- 
rel !  He  was  very  impatient  of  my  question  ;  he  may 
be  still  more  so  to  have  it  repeated.  A  row  in  the 
family,  between  brothers  "  — 

"  Why  should  we  quarrel  ?  What  reason  is  there 
for  any  row  ?  "  Roger  said  sternly,  and  Edmund  had 
no  answer  to  give. 

Stephen  was  there,  —  up-stairs.     They  went  in  to- 


STEPHEN'S   ANSWER.  353 

gether,  Roger  first,  Edmund  scarcely  able  to  breathe. 
A  group  of  men  were  descending  as  they  went  up, 
and  on  the  landing  the  two  brothers  perceived  Ste- 
phen, the  last  of  the  band.  His  companions  were 
talking  and  laughing,  but  he  was  coming  down  si- 
lently, with  an  angry  cloud  on  his  face.  The  two 
young  men  waited  for  him  on  the  landing,  which  gave 
them  full  time  to  note  his  aspect  and  the  unusual 
gravity  of  his  looks  ;  but  he  did  not  observe  them,  so 
occupied  was  he  with  his  own  thoughts,  till  he  was 
close  upon  them.  Then  Roger  put  out  his  hand  and 
touched  him  on  the  arm.  Stephen  started,  and  raised 
his  eyes  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  impatience :  evidently 
he  was  not  in  a  temper  to  be  disturbed.  But  when  he 
saw  who  it  was,  a  look  of  fury  came  into  his  eyes,  — 
they  were  very  light  eyes,  which  looked  sinister  in  ex- 
citement. "  Hallo !  "  he  cried,  "  you  there  again  !  " 
He  passed  over  Roger  with  intention,  and  fixed  his 
look  upon  Edmund,  who  stood  behind. 

"  Stephen,"  said  Roger,  "  I  have  a  question  to  ask 
you."  He  was  drawing  his  breath  quickly  and  with 
difficulty. 

"  I  presume,"  said  Stephen  slowly,  scowling,  draw- 
ing back  a  little,  "  it 's  the  same  question  as  that  fel- 
low put  to  me  to-day.  What  the is  it  your  busi- 
ness whether  I  know  or  whether  I  don't  know?  I 
told  him  I  'd  break  any  man's  head  that  asked  me 
that  again  ! " 

"  Nevertheless,  you  must  give  me  an  answer,"  re- 
turned Roger,  making  a  step  forward.  The  question 
had  not  been  put  into  words ;  there  seemed  no  need 
between  them  for  any  such  details.  Neither  of  his 
brothers  was  in  the  least  aware  what  it  was  which 
brought  such  fury  into  Stephen's  eyes  and  tone. 


354  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Roger,  who  accused  him  of  nothing,  whose  question 
was  in  reality  of  the  most  simple  character,  was  irri- 
tated by  an  opposition  which  appeared  so  uncalled  for. 
He  advanced  a  little  as  Stephen  drew  back.  "  If  you 
have  any  light  to  throw  upon  the  matter,  for  Heaven's 
sake  answer  me,"  he  said,  putting  up  his  hand,  as 
Stephen  thought,  to  seize  him  by  the  coat. 

There  was  in  the  younger  brother  a  fury  which  had 
no  means  of  utterance,  which  caught  at  the  first  possi- 
bility of  getting  vent.  He  pushed  Roger  back  with  a 
violence  of  which  he  was  himself  totally  unaware.  "  I 
warned  him  —  the  first  man  that  asked  me  that  ques- 
tion again !  "  he  cried  savagely,  thrusting  his  brother 
from  him  with  all  his  force.  They  were  all  three  on 
the  edge  of  the  heavy  stone  stairs,  none  of  them  con- 
scious or  thinking  of  any  danger.  Perhaps  there  would 
have  been  no  danger  if  Roger  had  been  in  his  ordinary 
condition  of  health.  As  it  was,  before  a  word  could 
be  said  or  a  breath  drawn,  before  Stephen  was  aware 
of  the  violence  of  the  thrust  backward  which  he  had 
given,  Roger  went  down  like  a  stone.  There  was  a 
breathless,  horrible  moment,  while  the  two  who  were 
left  looked  involuntarily  into  each  other's  faces :  then 
Edmund,  with  a  spring,  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs,  where  all  huddled  upon  himself,  like  a  fallen 
house,  his  brother  lay.  In  a  moment  —  it  was  no  more : 
as  if  a  flash  of  lightning  had  come  out  of  the  sky  and 
struck  him  down  there. 


XXXIII. 

THE   SHADOW   OF   DEATH. 

THERE  is  something  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  sick-room 
in  which  a  man  lies  under  the  shadow  of  death,  es- 
pecially when  that  awful  shadow  has  come  upon  the 
sky  in  a  moment,  which  changes  the  entire  aspect  of 
the  world  to  those  who  stand  at  the  bedside.  There 
had  been  a  moment  of  horror  and  dismay,  in  which 
Stephen's  bewilderment  and  terror-stricken  compunc- 
tion had  obliterated  all  feeling  of  guilt  on  his  part 
from  his  brother's  mind.  Indeed,  the  catastrophe  was 
so  unlooked  for,  and  seemed  so  entirely  beyond  any 
cause  that  could  have  brought  it  about,  that  the  two 
brothers  bent  over  Roger  with  equal  anxiety,  equal 
alarm  and  astonishment,  forgetting  everything  but  the 
sudden  shock  as  of  a  thunderbolt  falling,  striking  him 
down  at  their  feet.  Edmund  had  no  time  or  power  to 
think,  during  the  turmoil  and  horrible  pause  which 
ensued,  which  might  have  lasted,  so  far  as  he  knew,  a 
day  or  ten  minutes,  in  which  Roger  was  examined  by 
a  grave  doctor,  who  said  little,  and  was  then  painfully 
transported  to  his  own  rooms  and  laid  on  his  own  bed. 
He  had  not  recovered  consciousness  for  a  moment,  nor 
did  he  during  the  long,  terrible  night  which  followed, 
in  the  course  of  which  Edmund  sat  like  a  man  para- 
lyzed, within  sight  of  the  motionless  figure,  for  which 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  none  of  those  cares 
which  keep  the  watcher  from  despair.  The  doctor  had 


856  THE   SECOND  SON. 

sent  in  a  nurse,  who,  after  vainly  endeavoring  to  in- 
duce Edmund  to  withdraw  ("For  he  doesn't  know 
you,  or  any  one,  nor  won't,  perhaps,  ever  again,  poor 
gentleman  !  And  what 's  the  good  of  wearing  yourself 
out,  when  you  can  do  nothing  for  him?  "  she  had  said, 
with  that  appalling  reasonableness  which  kills),  had 
herself  retired  to  the  next  room,  provident,  as  her  class 
always  are,  of  the  rest  which  would  be  so  needful  to 
her,  in  face  of  whatever  might  occur  to  demand  her 
watchfulness  afterwards.  Her  words,  her  look,  made 
Edmund's  heart  sick,  and  the  realization  of  the  fact 
that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  and  that,  whether 
for  always  or  only  for  a  time,  Roger  was  beyond  all 
possibility  of  succor,  came  over  him  with  a  sudden 
blankness  of  desolation.  He  knew  nothing  of  illness, 
especially  of  illness  so  extraordinary  and  terrible.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  tell  from  moment  to  moment 
what  might  be  accomplishing  itself  on  the  curtainless 
bed,  where  Roger's  profile,  stern  in  the  silence,  showed 
itself  against  the  faintly  colored  wall.  He  sat  there 
himself  in  a  sort  of  trance  of  despair  and  anguish  and 
deadly  fear.  His  brother  might  die  at  any  instant,  for 
anything  Edmund  knew  ;  the  life  which  was  already 
hidden  and  veiled  might  depart  altogether,  without  a 
hand  being  held  out  to  save.  The  horror  of  doing 
nothing,  of  sitting  still,  and  perhaps  seeing  the  precious 
life  ebb  away  without  putting  out  a  finger,  without  an 
effort,  as  Edmund  felt,  was  almost  beyond  bearing. 
He  himself  could  do  nothing, — he  knew  nothing  that 
could  be  done.  If  the  doctor  had  but  remained,  who 
knew !  but  the  doctor  had  said  that  to  watch  the  pa- 
tient was  all  that  was  possible.  And  Edmund  was 
watching,  Heaven  knew  how  anxiously !  yet  in  his  ig- 
norance feeling  that  some  change  might  occur  which  he 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  357 

would  not  observe,  would  not  understand,  and  on  which 
might  hang  the  issues  of  life  and  death.  Half  a  dozen 
times  he  had  risen  to  call  the  nurse,  that  there  might 
be  some  one  who  would  know;  then  had  restrained 
himself  and  noiselessly  sat  down  again,  remembering 
what  she  had  said,  and  half  afraid  of  crossing  or  irri- 
tating the  attendant  on  whose  services,  for  aught  he 
knew,  Roger's  life  might  depend.  He  felt  like  a  fool, 
or  a  child,  so  ignorant,  so  helpless,  so  ready  to  be  seized 
with  unreasonable  panic, —  surely  unreasonable,  since 
both  doctor  and  nurse  had  felt  themselves  at  liberty  to 
go  away.  It  was  about  nine  o'clock  when  the  catas- 
trophe had  occurred,  and  by  midnight  it  seemed  to 
Edmund  as  if  years  had  passed  over  him  in  that  awful 
stillness,  and  as  if  everything  in  life  had  receded  far 
away.  By  the  bed  where  Roger  lay  unconscious  there 
was  no  longer  anything  worth  thinking  of,  except 
whether  he  would  open  his  eyes,  whether  the  hardness 
of  his  breathing  would  soften,  whether  any  sign  of  life 
would  break  through  that  blank.  Lily  Ford  ?  —  who 
was  she,  what  was  she  ?  If  her  name  swept,  in  the 
current  of  his  thoughts,  over  Edmund's  mind  at  all,  he 
was  impatient  of  it,  and  flung  it  from  him,  like  some- 
thing intrusive  and  impertinent.  All  the  associations 
that  had  occupied  his  thoughts  for  days  past  went  from 
him  like  vanities.  He  remembered  them  no  more,  or, 
if  they  recurred,  brushed  them  from  his  mind,  with  in- 
dignant astonishment  that  such  nothings  could  ever 
have  occupied  it.  What  was  there  to  think  of  in  all 
the  world  but  that  Roger  lay  there,  an  image  of  death 
in  life,  wrapped  in  darkness,  and  perhaps  —  perhaps 
—  a  horror  that  made  his  heart  stand  still  —  might 
never  come  out  of  it  again  ? 

At  midnight  Stephen  came  in,  trying,  no  doubt,  to 


358  THE   SECOND   SON. 

walk  softly  and  speak  softly ;  opening  the  door  with  a 
creak,  and  stepping  upon  some  loose  plank  in  the  floor- 
ing, which  shivered  and  jarred  under  his  foot.  "  How 
is  he  now  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  rough  whisper,  which  seemed 
to  Edmund's  strained  faculties  more  penetrating,  more 
disagreeable,  than  any  ordinary  noise.  Stephen  made 
a  step  forward  elaborately,  and  looked  at  the  face 
upon  the  pillow.  "  Don't  look  much  better,  does  he?" 
he  said.  In  reality  Stephen  was  very  uncomfortable, 

—  more   than  uncomfortable.     He  had  not  meant  to 
do  his  brother  any  harm,  —  he  had  repeated  that  as- 
surance to  himself  a  hundred  times  within   the  last 
hour.     He  never  meant  to  harm  him,  —  why  should 
he  ?     He  had  no  motive  for  injuring  his  brother  :  they 
had  always  been  good  friends.     What  had  happened 
about  their  father's  will  was  nothing.     There  was  no 
possible  reason  in  that  for  quarreling  with  Roger,  for 
he  was  quite  out  it,  and  had  nothing  to  say  in  the  mat- 
ter.    Nobody  would  do  Stephen  the  wrong  to  say  that 
he  had  any  bad  meaning.     How  could  he  know  that  a 
man,  a  man  as  big  as  himself,  would  go  down  like  that 
at  a  touch  ?     It  was  no  fault  of  his :  there  must  have 
been  something  the  matter  with  the  poor  old  fellow,  or 
he  must  have  been  standing  unsteadily,  or  —  but  cer- 
tainly it  was  not  Stephen  who  was  to  blame.     He  had 
repeated  this  to  himself  all  the  way,  as  he  went  along 
the  streets.     How  could  he  be  to  blame  ? 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  quiet,  —  don't  disturb  him  ! " 
said  Edmund,  with  an  impatience  that  was  uncon- 
trollable. Disturb  him !  He  would  have  given  every- 
thing he  had  in  the  world  to  be  able  to  disturb  Roger, 

—  to  draw  him  out  of  that  fatal  lethargy;  but  the 
sound   of    Stephen's   jarring    step,   and   the   whisper 
which  whistled  through  this  sacred  place,  roused  Ed- 
mund to  a  fever  of  suppressed  passion. 


THE   SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  359 

"  Oh,  nothing  disturbs  a  man  in  that  state.  I  've 
seen  'em,"  Stephen  said,  taking  less  precautions  as  he 
became  familiar  with  the  darkened  room,  the  aspect 
of  everything,  "  when  you  might  have  fired  a  cannon- 
ball  close  to  their  ears,  and  they  would  have  taken  no 
notice.  When  is  the  doctor  to  come  back  ?  Are  you 
going  to  sit  up  all  night  ?  I  thought  he  had  sent  in  a 
nurse.  Then  what 's  the  use  of  you  sitting  up  ?  You 
can't  do  him  any  good." 

"  I  can't  talk,"  Edmund  answered ;  "  don't  ask  me 
any  questions.  We  can  only  wait  and  see  what  the 
morning  brings." 

Stephen  nodded  in  assent.  He  stooped  over  the 
bed,  looked  at  the  motionless  figure,  and  shook  his 
head.  "  Poor  chap  !  "  he  said,  "  he  looks  very  bad." 
Stephen  was  very  uncomfortable,  but  he  did  not  know 
how  to  express  it.  He  stood  swaying  from  one  foot 
to  the  other,  looking  blankly  about  him.  "I  don't 
suppose  I  can  be  of  any  use,"  he  said. 

"None,  none!  "  replied  Edmund.  "  Nobody  can  be 
of  any  use." 

"  You  'd  rather  I  should  go  ?  "  asked  Stephen,  glad 
to  escape,  yet  reluctant  to  show  it.  "  I  should  n't  if 
I  could  be  of  any  use  ;  but  if  I  can't  —  Look  here, 
Ned,  call  the  woman,  and  go  to  bed  yourself ;  you 
can't  do  him  any  good,  either." 

"  Oh,  go,  go  !  "  Edmund  said. 

"  And,  Ned  —  as  for  what  he  asked  me,  poor  chap  ! 
You  may  think  it  is  n't  true,  but  it  is  true.  I  declare 
to  you  "  — 

"  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  cried  Edmund,  under  his 
breath,  "  go  away,  go  home,  go  to  bed !  What  does 
it  matter?  What  does  anything  matter?  Do  I  care 
whether  it  is  true  or  not  ?  Go,  go  !  " 


360  THE   SECOND   SON. 

"  You  speak  as  if  I  had  n't  as  good  a  right  —  as  if 
you  thought  I  meant  to  —  to  do  him  harm.  I  never 
meant  to  do  him  harm,  so  help  me  "  — 

"  Go  now,  Stephen,  go  home  and  go  to  bed.  He 
may  be  better  in  the  morning." 

"  Poor  chap ! "  Stephen  said  once  more,  shaking 
his  head ;  and  then  creaking  more  than  ever,  like  his 
father,  making  the  boards  jar  and  the  room  shake,  he 
went  away. 

And  again  that  awful  silence  came  over  the  place, 
—  a  silence  which  thrilled  and  vibrated  with  dread- 
ful meaning,  till  even  the  interruption  of  Stephen's 
presence  seemed  to  have  been  a  gain.  Edmund  sat 
still  and  motionless,  his  heart  within  him  in  a  fever 
of  suspense,  and  fear  and  agitation  indescribable  riot- 
ing his  bosom  with  an  independent,  mad  life  of  un- 
endurable pain.  How  he  kept  still,  how  he  did  not 
cry  out,  spring  up  from  his  watch,  drag  back  by  any 
violent  means  the  dead,  dumb,  marble  image  which 
was  his  brother,  to  life,  to  life,  to  any  kind  of  con- 
scious being,  even  if  it  were  agony,  he  could  not  tell. 
But  something,  whether  it  was  reason,  whether  it  was 
the  mere  solidity  of  flesh  and  blood,  which  bound  the 
raging  anxiety  of  the  soul,  kept  him  almost  as  still  as 
Roger ;  watching,  wondering  what  was  to  come,  and 
how  he  was  to  live  through  this  awful  night. 

The  morning  brought  little  hope ;  and  then  ensued 
days  upon  days,  of  which  Edmund  knew  nothing  ex- 
cept that  they  came  and  passed  and  brought  no 
change.  Stephen  appeared  from  time  to  time,  steal- 
ing in  with  elaborate  precautions,  making  every  board 
creak,  —  as  if  it  mattered  !  And  presently  the  Squire 
arrived,  like  a  larger  Stephen,  looking  at  the  patient 
in  the  same  helpless  way,  shaking  his  head.  The 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.       361 

father's  sanction  was  necessary  before  the  dangerous 
operation,  which  was  the  only  thing  in  which  there 
was  a  glimmer  of  hope,  could  be  attempted.  Mr. 
Mitford  was  far  from  being  without  feeling.  To  see 
his  son,  his  first-born,  of  whom  he  had  been  proud, 
lying  on  that  bed,  which  was  too  evidently  a  bed  of 
death,  affected  him  deeply.  He  had  asked  a  great 
many  questions  at  first,  and  had  been  inclined  to 
blame  everybody.  "  Why  did  you  let  him  question 
Steve  ?  Steve  never  would  stand  questioning,  from  a 
child.  Why  did  n't  you  warn  Steve  that  he  was  ill  ? 
He  must  have  been  ill,  or  a  mere  push  could  not  have 
harmed  him.  Was  it  only  a  push?  It  must  have 
been  more  than  a  push.  They  had  a  scuffle,  I  sup- 
pose, on  the  stairs  !  By !  how  could  you  be  such 

a  fool  as  to  let  two  men  in  the  heat  of  a  quarrel  meet  on 
the  stairs  ?  "  Thus  he  talked,  in  his  large  voice,  with 
an  angry  cloud  upon  his  face,  as  he  came  up-stairs. 
But  when  he  entered  Roger's  room  the  Squire  was 
silenced.  He  stood  and  looked  at  his  son  with  angry, 
helpless  wretchedness,  making  a  little  sound  of  half- 
remonstrant  trouble  with  his  tongue  against  his  pal- 
ate. What  could  he  do?  What  could  be  done? 
To  know  that  it  was  all  over  would  have  been  nothing 
compared  to  the  misery  of  seeing  him  there,  and  not 
knowing  what  might  happen  at  any  moment.  Mr. 
Mitford  was  glad  to  go  away,  making  his  progress 
audible  by  that  faint  sound  of  inarticulate  perplexity 
and  remonstrance,  and  by  the  unsubduable  tread 
which  shook  the  house.  He  had  no  objection  to  try 
the  desperate  expedient  of  the  operation,  though  he 
did  not  in  the  least  believe  in  it.  "  He 's  a  dead 
man  !  he  's  a  dead  man !  I  don't  believe  they  can 
do  anything,"  he  said,  in  the  hurried  family  council 


362  THE   SECOND  SON. 

which  was  held  in  an  adjoining  room.  And  Stephen 
also  shook  his  head.  He  was  very  like  his  father. 
He  had  the  same  expression  of  perplexed  and  irri- 
tated seriousness.  He  had  taken  up  almost  eagerly 
the  same  note  of  remonstrance.  If  Ned  had  only 
kept  him  quiet,  kept  him  in-doors  that  night,  when 
anybody  might  have  seen  he  was  out  of  sorts,  and  not 
fit  to  give  and  take,  like  other  men.  His  discomfort 
as  to  his  own  share  in  the  matter  was  wearing  off,  and 
he  began  to  feel  that  he  was  an  injured  person,  and 
had  a  right  to  complain. 

Ah !  if  Edmund  had  but  been  able  to  keep  his 
brother  in-doors  that  night !  He  said  it  to  himself 
with  a  far  more  tragic  sense  of  the  impossibility  than 
the  others  were  capable  of.  If  only  —  if  !  —  how 
lightly,  it  now  seemed,  all  the  miseries  that  existed 
before  could  have  been  borne.  It  gave  him  a  pang 
indescribable  to  think,  as  he  immediately  did,  of  how 
simple  it  might  have  been,  —  how  life  might  have 
flowed  on  quite  smoothly :  Roger  miserable,  perhaps, 
himself  weighed  down  bv  the  pressure  of  a  secret 
never  to  be  revealed ;  but  what  of  that,  what  trifles, 
what  nothings,  in  comparison  with  this  ! 

He  was  the  only  one  who  had  any  hope  in  the  oper- 
ation, though  he  was  the  last  to  consent  to  it.  The 
others,  no  doubt,  would  have  been  glad  if  Roger  had 
recovered,  but  they  were  almost  as  anxious  to  be 
freed  from  the  dreadful  pressure  of  the  situation  as  to 
save  his  life :  his  life,  if  possible  ;  but  if  not,  that  these 
paralyzing  circumstances  might  come  to  an  end.  It 
was  with  the  hope  that  one  way  or  other  this  release 
might  be  accomplished  that  Mr.  Mitford  and  Stephen 
awaited  the  result.  They  would  not  remain  in  the 
room,  —  it  was  too  much  for  them :  they  remained 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.       363 

close  by,  in  Roger's  sitting-room,  with  all  its  scattered 
traces  of  his  presence.  Geraldine  and  Amy  were 
there,  too,  with  a  little  feminine  rustle,  crying  from 
time  to  time,  yet  not  unconscious  of  a  curiosity  about 
the  photographs  on  the  tables,  which  were  not  all 
family  photographs,  and  about  such  other  revelations 
as  might  be  gleaned  of  the  young  man's  independent 
life ;  but  ready  to  cry  again,  to  give  back  all  their  at- 
tention to  the  one  absorbing  subject,  whenever  a  door 
opened  or  a  sound  was  heard.  The  Squire  walked 
about  the  room  with  his  heavy  tread,  taking  up  and 
throwing  down  again  such  articles  as  caught  his  eye, 
a  whip,  a  cane,  a  cigar-case,  little  luxuries  such  as  in 
some  cases  he  despised.  Stephen  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  others,  looking  out,  with  a  curious  mingling  of 
compunction  and  resentment  and  self-defense  in  his 
mind.  Nobody  could  say  he  was  to  blame,  —  how 
could  he  be  to  blame  ?  Was  he  to  know  that  a  man 
might  be  as  weak  as  a  cat,  not  fit  to  stand  against  a 
push  ?  Nobody  could  be  expected  to  think  of  that. 

Edmund  alone  stood  by  his  unconscious  brother, 
while  the  doctors  were  doing  their  work.  He  alone 
received  the  dazed,  bewildered  look  which  Roger  cast 
round  him  in  the  first  moment  of  relief,  like  a  man 
awakening,  yet  with  something  awful  in  it,  as  if  the 
awakening  were  from  the  dead.  When  that  vague 
gaze  fell  upon  Edmund,  the  sufferer  recognized  him  for 
a  moment,  smiled,  made  a  motion  as  if  to  put  out  his 
hand,  and  said  something  which  was  audible  only  as  a 
murmur  in  his  throat.  He  was  not  allowed  to  do  any 
more.  The  doctors  interfered  to  ordain  perfect  quiet, 
perfect  rest,  the  closest  watch,  and  no  excitement  or 
movement.  The  operation  was  successful,  quite  suc- 
cessful. Twenty-four  hours,  perfect  quiet,  and  then  — 


364  THE   SECOND  SON. 

The  great  operator,  whose  every  minute  was  worth 
gold,  looked  into  the  adjoining  room  himself,  to  relieve 
the  anxiety  of  the  family.  "  As  an  operation,  entirely 
satisfactory ;  everything  now  depends  on  the  strength 
of  the  patient,"  he  said.  The  relief  of  the  strain 
which  had  been  upon  their  nerves  was  great.  The 
girls  got  up  from  their  corner  with  that  pleasant  rustle 
of  their  skirts,  and  uttered  little  cries  of  pleasure  and 
thankfulness.  Geraldine  stood  up  before  the  glass 
over  Roger's  chimney-piece  to  put  her  bonnet  straight, 
which  had  been  a  little  disarranged,  she  thought,  by 
her  crying.  Amy  made  a  little  dart  to  a  table  where 
there  was  a  photograph  of  a  woman  which  she  had 
never  seen  before,  and  turned  it  over  to  see  if  there 
were  any  name  or  inscription.  The  Squire  threw 
down  a  cane  with  a  curious  silver  handle  which  he 
had  been  examining,  and  breathed  forth  a  great  sigh 
of  relief.  "  That 's  all  right !  "  he  said.  It  seemed 
to  all  of  them  that  the  incident  was  over,  and  that 
perhaps  they  had  been  unduly  excited,  and  it  had  not 
been  so  important,  after  all. 

But  Edmund  did  not  move  from  his  brother's  room. 
His  heart  was  sick  with  that  deferred  hope  which  it  is 
so  hard  to  bear.  He  too,  for  the  first  minute  had 
thought  the  incident  was  over.  He  took  his  brother's 
hand  and  pressed  it  in  his  own,  and  thought  he  felt 
a  faint  response.  But  when  he  was  dismissed  again 
to  his  watch,  and  forbidden  to  speak  or  touch  the 
patient  still  hanging  between  life  and  death,  his  heart 
sank.  The  room  relapsed  once  more,  after  all  the 
silent  strain  and  excitement,  into  absolute  quiet. 
Presently  the  nurse  came  to  Edmund's  side  and 
whispered,  "  He 's  going  to  sleep,  sir,  —  the  very 
best  thing  ;  and  you  should  go  and  take  a  bit  of  rest 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  365 

Nobody  in  this  world  can  do  without  a  bit  of  natural 
rest." 

Edmund  scarcely  understood  what  the  woman  said. 
He  did  not  move  ;  he  could  not  have  risen  had  his  life 
depended  upon  it,  nor  withdrawn  his  eyes  from  the 
sleeper.  Was  it  sleep  ?  Was  it  death  ?  How  could 
he  tell  ?  No  more  than  if  he  had  been  dying  him- 
self could  he  have  moved  from  his  brother's  side. 

And  in  that  sleep  Roger  died. 


XXXIV. 

A   DEATH   IN   THE   FAMILY. 

IT  is  needless  to  say  that  this  event,  so  unlocked 
for,  coming  with  such  a  shock  upon  them  all  (though 
the  two  brothers-in-law,  the  husbands  of  Geraldine 
and  Amy,  declared  that  they  had  never  for  a  mo- 
ment looked  for  any  other  termination),  produced 
a  great  effect  upon  the  family.  A  death  in  a  fam- 
ily always  does  so.  There  was  a  jar  and  startling 
stop  of  all  the  machinery  of  life.  The  two  gay  young 
houses  in  London,  and  the  great  house  at  Melcombe, 
were  shut  up.  Geraldine  and  Amy,  retired  from 
all  their  pleasures,  and  with  a  good  deal  of  sorrow  for 
themselves,  thus  withdrawn  from  existence,  as  it  were, 
so  early  in  the  season,  crossed  by  a  real  transitory 
pang,  more  perhaps  for  the  horror  of  the  catastrophe 
than  for  the  brother  lost,  made  an  occupation  and  dis- 
traction for  themselves  in  the  ordering  of  their  mourn- 
ing, which  gave  them  a  great  deal  to  do,  and  a  little 
much-desired  novelty.  They  had  never  been  in  mourn- 
ing before ;  it  was  a  new  sensation ;  they  did  not 
know  whether  it  would  be  becoming  or  the  reverse. 
Roger  had  not  been  much  to  them  at  any  time,  and  if 
they  cried  a  little  now  and  then,  when  they  remem- 
bered, and  felt  a  sharp  little  sting  of  that  almost  re- 
morseful pain  with  which  simple  minds  contemplate  the 
sweeping  away  of  another  life,  while  they  still  con- 
tinue to  enjoy  the  sunshine,  it  was  all  that  could  have 


A   DEATH  IN   THE   FAMILY.  367 

been  expected  from  these  two  untrained  and  uncher- 
ished  girls.  It  is  to  be  doubted  even  whether  Roger 
would  have  felt  so  much  for  them.  Women  are  more 
capable  of  having  the  feelings  they  ought  to  have,  and 
responding  to  the  exigencies  of  their  position,  than 
men. 

At  Melcombe  the  household  lived,  for  the  days 
which  elapsed  between  the  death  and  burial,  in  a 
pause  of  suspended  excitement,  with  a  great  deal  to 
talk  about  and  think  about,  and  a  solemnity  which 
was  not  unpleasant.  Some  of  the  old  servants  were 
truly  grieved  for  Mr.  Roger,  but  the  subdued  bustle 
in  the  funereal  house,  the  continual  succession  of 
events,  the  comparison  of  facts  and  reports,  the  mak- 
ing out  so  far  as  they  could  of  an  extremely  exciting 
story,  and  even  the  new  mourning  into  which  they 
were  all  put,  men  and  women,  with  a  fullness  of  pro- 
vision which  they  felt  showed  the  most  real  respect  for 
the  dead,  occupied  their  minds  and  aroused  their  in- 
terest, —  quickened,  in  short,  their  entire  mental  be- 
ing. They  all  knew  —  though  how,  nobody  could  have 
told  —  that  Stephen  was  somehow  connected  with  his 
brother's  death;  they  all  speculated  as  to  what  Lily 
Ford  had  to  do  with  it.  Was  it  jealousy  ?  What 
was  it  ?  It  was  known  by  this  time  that  Lily  Ford 
was  no  longer  in  her  father's  house.  Indeed,  Mrs. 
Ford  proclaimed  the  fact  to  everybody,  saying  that 
her  daughter  was  staying  with  some  of  her  grand 
friends,  and  that  she  was  glad  of  it,  for  Lily  was 
very  tender-hearted,  and  would  have  felt  Mr.  Roger's 
death  dreadful.  The  Fords,  indeed,  entirely  con- 
founded the  ingenuity  of  the  servants'  hall.  Lar- 
kins,  who  was  aware  of  that  distracted  visit  to  Ed- 
mund, had  put  on  his  most  sympathetic  face  the  next 


368  THE   SECOND   SON. 

time  he  had  met  the  gamekeeper's  wife.  "I  hope, 
ma'am,  that  you  've  better  news,"  he  had  said  in  a 
most  mournful  and  confidential  tone.  "  Oh,  thank 
you,  sir,  I  've  had  the  best  of  news,  and  am  just  as 
happy  as  can  be,"  she  had  responded  cheerfully,  tak- 
ing him  much  by  surprise.  There  was  a  mystery,  but 
no  one  had  even  a  guess  what  the  mystery  was. 

The  family,  as  was  natural,  assembled  at  Melcombe 
for  the  funeral,  filling  the  house  with  guests  and  a 
kind  of  gloomy  entertainment  for  three  or  four  days. 
Poor  Roger  was  laid,  with  "  every  respect,"  with  all 
honor,  in  the  family  vault,  a  black-robed  group  of 
mourners,  with  respectfully  bowed  heads,  standing 
round  the  coffin,  which  was  concealed  from  sight,  it 
need  not  be  said,  by  wreaths  of  the  most  beautiful 
flowers,  sent,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
from  far  and  near.  Father,  brothers,  brothers-in-law, 
cousins,  old  neighbors  of  all  degrees,  followed  the 
melancholy  train.  More  respect  could  not  have  been 
shown  to  a  prince ;  and  some  went  away  saddened  by 
thoughts  of  the  promising  life  cut  short,  and  some  with 
relief  to  think  that  at  last  all  was  over,  which  was 
scarcely  a  less  human  sentiment.  In  Melcombe  per- 
haps the  feeling  of  relief  predominated.  To  be  able 
to  have  the  blinds  drawn  up,  to  look  at  the  papers,  to 
enter  without  self-reproach  into  ordinary  subjects, 
after  such  a  long  and  distressing  break  in  all  usual 
habits,  was  a  welcome  change.  Poor  Roger!  it  could 
not  do  him  any  good,  poor  fellow,  that  anybody  should 
be  ill  at  ease.  All  the  crying  in  the  world  would  not 
bring  him  back.  Everything  had  been  done  that  could 
be  done,  —  more,  far  more  than  people  in  general  were 
able  to  do ;  and  now  that  it  was  all  over,  it  was  a  relief 
to  return  to  ordinary  themes  and  ordinary  habits  once 
more. 


A   DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY.  369 

The  Squire  was  a  man  who  did  not  feel  very  rouch 
except  when  he  was  put  out  and  his  habits  were  inter- 
fered with ;  but  yet,  as  much  as  was  possible  he  had 
felt  this.  A  man  does  not  lose  his  eldest  son  by  a  sud- 
den and  almost  violent  death  without  feeling  it ;  es- 
pecially when  he  has  just  made  a  family  revolution  in 
consequence  of  that  son's  proceedings,  and  altered  the 
succession  in  a  way  that  becomes  ridiculous  the  mo- 
ment the  culprit  disappears.  He  had  put  Roger  out 
of  his  natural  place,  and  he  had  put  Stephen  in  it. 
And  now  that  he  had  time  to  think,  the  arrangement 
struck  him  not  only  as  very  ridiculous,  a  thing  that 
naturally  everybody  would  think  they  had  a  right  to 
demand  explanations  of,  but  also  as  unjust  and  un- 
justifiable. The  wrong  to  Edmund  had  not  troubled 
him,  so  long  as  Edmund's  refusal  to  carry  out  his 
wishes  had  stood  between  them.  But  now  that  these 
wishes  had  dropped,  now  that  fate  had  ended  all 
Roger's  chances,  there  was  no  doubt  that  to  cut  off 
Edmund  for  no  reason  at  all  was  an  injustice.  He 
was  now  the  eldest  son,  —  there  was  no  doubt  on  that 
point.  —  the  natural  heir,  the  head  of  the  family  after 
his  father ;  whereas  Stephen  must  bear  the  mark  of 
cadency,  however  completely  endowed  he  might  be 
with  the  family  honors.  This  troubled  the  Squire 
greatly,  and  prolonged  the  existence  of  the  cloud  which 
had  arisen  with  Roger's  death.  That  event  put  every- 
thing out.  It  stultified  him ;  it  made  him  do  what  he 
had  never  intended  to  do.  There  was  nothing,  indeed, 
nothing  in  the  world  against  Edmund.  He  had  given 
his  father  no  offense.  He  would,  all  things  consid- 
ered, probably  make  a  better  Squire  of  Melcombe  than 
a  man  who  had  got  a  great  deal  too  much  of  the  mess- 
room  in  him.  The  Squire  was  certainly  uncomforta- 


370  THE   SECOND  SON. 

ble,  and  yet  he  did  not  like  to  make  again  an  exhibi- 
tion of  himself  by  another  change.  Pouncefort  would 
say,  "  I  told  you  that  you  would  regret  it ;  "  he  would 
say  with  his  eyebrows,  if  not  in  words,  that  the  Mit- 
fords  were  hot-headed  fools.  He  would  perhaps  talk 
of  the  risk,  of  which  he  had  warned  the  Squire,  of 
dying  before  dinner.  Mr.  Mitford  was  afraid  of 
Stephen,  too,  who  would  not  willingly  part  with  the 
inheritance  which  he  had  accepted  so  readily.  It 
requires  a  strong  inducement  to  make  a  man  expose 
himself  to  all  these  disagreeables,  and  in  face  of  this 
paraphernalia  of  death  and  burial  the  Squire  felt  with 
a  recoil  the  force  of  his  own  life  and  strength.  Why 
should  he  hurry  himself,  expose  himself  to  the  re- 
monstrances of  Stephen  and  the  jeers  of  Pouncefort? 
But  he  was  very  uncomfortable,  and  troubled  with  an 
angry  sense  that  his  eldest  son,  whom  he  had  so  re- 
morselessly cut  out,  had  repaid  him  very  summarily, 
almost  shabbily,  for  this  ill  turn,  and  that  Roger  might 
have  helped  it  if  he  would. 

Stephen  too  was  very  uncomfortable,  so  uncomforta- 
ble that  in  one  respect  it  did  him  good.  It  put  Lily, 
and  the  rage  and  the  humiliation  which  her  escape 
from  his  hands  had  caused  him,  out  of  his  mind.  He 
forgot  that  he  had  been  made  a  fool  of,  cheated,  de- 
ceived, plante  la,  which  was  how  he  represented  it  to 
himself.  There  are  different  standards  of  pride  and 
honor.  Stephen  had  felt  himself  wronged,  insulted, 
put  to  shame,  by  Lily.  He  would  have  thrown  up  his 
commission,  abandoned  all  his  occupations  and  pleas- 
ures, left  England,  disappeared  he  did  not  care  where, 
had  the  story  ever  reached  the  ears  of  his  set.  It 
would  have  covered  him  with  ridicule  and  shame ;  it 
made  him  ridiculous  to  himself,  even,  while  he  brooded 


A   DEATH  IN   THE  FAMILY.  371 

furiously  over  it  during  the  first  day.  He  had  spent 
half  the  night  in  the  streets,  like  Lily,  but  not  in  the 
same  streets,  as  it  happened,  and  had  not  given  up  the 
search  for  twenty-four  hours  after  ;  not,  indeed,  until 
the  morning  on  which  Edmund  found  him,  coming 
back,  suspicious  and  on  the  watch  for  any  look  or  hint 
that  might  show  a  consciousness  of  his  secret.  It  was 
this  rage  of  shame  and  terror  of  ridicule  which  had 
made  him  repulse  his  brothers,  one  after  the  other,  in 
the  latter  case  with  such  fatal  effects.  But  the  catas- 
trophe delivered  Stephen :  he  thought  of  Lily  no 
more  ;  he  forgot  that  disgusting  episode,  as  he  called 
it  in  his  thoughts  ;  the  shock  of  this  new  and  dreadful 
event  drove  her  and  the  fury  with  which  he  had  been 
regarding  her  out  of  his  mind  altogether.  He  was  not 
very  sensitive  nor  tender-hearted,  but  the  sight  of 
Roger's  fall  would  not  go  out  of  his  eyes  or  his  mind. 
When  he  was  by  himself  it  came  back  to  him,  —  the 
sudden  disappearance,  the  sound,  so  heavy,  so  horri- 
ble, so  unlike  any  other  sound.  He  could  not  forget 
it.  Presently  something  of  the  same  feeling  with 
which  he  had  regarded  Lily  when  she  escaped  came 
into  his  thoughts  of  Roger,  a  sense  of  anger,  as  if  he 
had  been  taken  at  a  disadvantage,  put  into  a  position 
in  which  he  could  not  but  show  badly,  although  he 
was  not  really  to  blame.  Certainly  he  was  not  to 
blame.  He  had  done  nothing  that  the  gentles t-tem- 
pered  man  might  not  have  done.  He  did  not  strike 
nor  knock  down  his  assailant,  as  a  hot-headed  fellow 
would  have  done.  He  only  pushed  him  back  a  bit ; 
anybody  would  have  done  that.  He  meant  no  harm. 
How  could  he  tell  that  Roger  was  weak,  or  unsteady, 
or  excited  ?  He  had  done  nothing  wrong,  but  some- 
how he  was  put  in  the  wrong,  and  he  knew  people 


372  THE   SECOND  SON. 

would  look  at  him  askance.  Edmund  did,  for  one. 
They  had  walked  together  after  the  coffin,  but  Ed- 
mund had  not  said  a  word  to  him,  had  greeted  him 
only  with  a  hurried  nod,  had  turned  his  eyes  away,  as 
if  he  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  him,  which  was  un- 
just, —  by  Jove !  abominably  unjust.  For  he  had  done 
nothing  —  nothing  that  any  man  would  not  have  done 
in  the  circumstances.  He  was  not  to  blame.  He  had 
not  meant  to  hurt  Roger.  Why  should  he  ?  Roger 
was  not  in  his  way.  Still,  it  is  a  disagreeable  thing  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  the  killing  of  your  brother: 
no  one  likes  to  be  mixed  up  in  such  a  catastrophe,  — 
and  again  Stephen  would  seem  to  see  the  face  of 
Roger  disappear  from  before  him,  and  the  mass  all 
huddled  up  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

And  this  funeral  party  was  very  disagreeable  to 
him.  To  act  company  with  Statham  and  Markham, 
whose  spirits  were  onty  temporarily  subdued,  and 
who  seemed  to  think  they  should  be  taken  over  the 
stables  (a  duty  which  Edmund,  retiring  to  his  own 
rooms  as  soon  as  the  funeral  was  over,  would  take  no 
part  in),  and  to  show  the  civility  of  a  son  of  the 
house,  almost  of  a  host,  to  the  departing  guests,  who, 
he  felt  sure,  must  be  commenting  upon  everything 
that  had  happened,  —  all  that  was  wearisome.  A 
man  who  has  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  shoot  his  fa- 
ther or  his  brother,  as  they  push  through  the  covert 
together,  is  pitied,  though  probably  it  is  all  due  to  his 
carelessness  ;  but  a  man  who  pushes  his  brother  down- 
stairs, his  brother  whose  rightful  place  he  has  just 
usurped  !  Stephen  felt  that  circumstances  were  veiy 
hard  upon  him  ;  for  it  was  no  fault  of  his,  —  he  was 
not  to  blame. 

He  would  have  liked  above  all  things  to  leave  Mel- 


A   DEATH  IN    THE  FAMILY.  373 

combe  with  the  Stathams  and  the  Markhams,  next 
day ;  they  were  unfeignedly  glad  to  go,  and  so  was 
Nina,  who  had  persuaded  Geraldine  to  take  her  "  for 
a  change."  "  Everybody  goes  for  a  change,  when 
there  has  been  a  death,"  Nina  said,  and  the  sisters 
acknowledged  the  justice  of  the  statement.  They  all 
went  away  with  serious  looks,  giving  little  pinches  and 
pats  to  each  other's  crape,  which,  being  so  stiff  and 
new,  would  not  "sit;  "  but  by  the  time  they  got  to 
the  station  they  had  all  cheered  up  wonderfully,  and 
begun  to  talk  about  what  they  had  better  do.  The 
season  was  lost  to  them,  but  still  the  world  was  not 
without  delights.  "  It  would  be  just  the  time  to  go 
for  a  little  run  abroad,"  Geraldine  had  said,  laying  to 
heart  that  suggestion  of  Nina's  about  a  change  after 
a  death.  Lady  Statham  had  so  far  recovered  her 
spirits  as  to  suggest  this,  as  they  reached  Moltpn 
Junction,  whither  they  had  driven  to  catch  the  ex- 
press train. 

Stephen  turned  back,  with  a  sigh  of  angry  pain. 
He  could  not  go  away,  nor  go  abroad,  nor  even  return 
to  his  regiment.  His  father  had  angrily  insisted  that 
he  should  remain.  "  If  you  're  going  to  be  the  head 
of  this  house,  you  'd  better  give  up  the  regiment,"  he 
said.  If,  again  !  — that  if  did  Stephen  a  little  good. 
It  showed  him  that  he  might  have  to  fight  for  his 
rights,  which  was  exhilarating,  and  gave  him  something 
to  think  of.  If!  It  was  the  governor's  own  doing  to 
put  him  in  that  place,  but  he  was  not  going  to  give  it 
up,  —  it  would  be  the  greatest  folly  to  give  it  up.  He 
was  not  one  of  those  who  could  chop  and  change  with 
every  wind,  he  said  to  himself ;  and  if  the  governor 
meant  to  go  back  from  his  word  he  should  not  find  it 
so  easy  as  he  had  done  with  Roger.  When  a  thing 


374  THE  SECOND  SON. 

was  settled,  it  was  settled.  The  chance  of  a  fight 
again  did  Stephen  good.  It  kept  him  up  after  all  the 
others  had  gone  away.  To  be  left  alone  in  the  house 
with  his  father  and  Edmund  was  not  a  cheerful  pros- 
pect ;  but  if  there  were  going  to  be  a  fight ! 

He  had  need  of  this  little  spark  of  pugnacity  to  sus- 
tain him,  for  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  anything 
more  miserable  than  the  dinner-table  at  Melcombe, 
on  the  first  evening  after  the  Stathams  and  Mark- 
hams  had  gone.  Eoger's  empty  chair  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  table,  but  no  one  took  it ;  neither  Edmund, 
who  had  the  natural  right  as  the  eldest  surviving 
son,  nor  Stephen,  who  had  the  acquired  right  as  the 
heir.  They  took  their  places  on  either  side  of  their 
father,  with  a  sense  of  desolation.  Presently  Edmund 
started  up,  and  pushing  against  the  astonished  Lar- 
kins,  put  away  the  chair  against  the  wall.  No  one 
said  a  word  ;  the  father  and  Stephen  looked  on,  with 
a  feeling  that  something  of  reproach  to  them  was  in 
this  rapid  movement,  but  they  were  too  much  cowed  to 
protest  or  remonstrate.  Larkins,  following  Edmund, 
cleared  away  very  solemnly  the  knives  and  forks  and 
glasses  from  the  table,  which  had  been  laid  as  usual 
for  that  fourth  who  would  never  take  his  place  there 
again.  Larkins  felt  the  reproach  also,  though  in  a 
different  way  ;  but  he  had  the  support  of  feeling  that 
he  had  done  it  for  the  best,  not  knowing  which  Mr. 
Edmund  would  prefer :  to  assume  the  place  which 
was  now  his  ;  or,  for  convenience,  as  there  was  so 
small  a  party,  to  keep  his  former  position  at  the  side. 
The  butler  put  all  the  silver  and  crystal  upon  the  tray 
which  John  Thomas  held  behind  him,  very  slowly, 
and  with  great  solemnity  and  just  but  suppressed  in- 
diguation ;  and  they  all  looked  on  in  silence,  not  say- 


A   DEATH  IN   THE  FAMILY.  375 

ing  a  word.     And  so  the  last  traces  of  Roger's  pres- 
ence were  swept  away. 

They  were  all  glad  when  the  meal  was  over,  and 
they  were  at  liberty  to  separate.  Even  Nina's  pres- 
ence would  have  been  a  little  relief.  The  three,  each 
other's  nearest  relations  in  the  world,  felt  among 
them  a  sourd  antagonism.  To  Stephen  and  his  fa- 
ther Edmund's  silence  was  as  a  disapproval  of  both ; 
Mr.  Mitford  was  angry  with  his  youngest  son  for  hav- 
ing gained  a  promotion  to  which  he  had  no  right,  and 
Stephen  was  all  in  arms  against  any  possible  repent- 
ance of  his  father.  How  glad  they  were  to  rise,  a 
few  moments  after  Larkins,  who  was  a  sort  of  protec- 
tion to  them,  left  the  room !  Each  was  afraid  of 
what  the  other  might  say.  Another  night  of  repose, 
of  postponement,  before  any  explanation  could  be 
made,  was  the  greatest  gain  which  was  possible.  Mr. 
Mitford  and  Edmund  retired  quickly,  taking  different 
directions,  the  moment  they  rose  from  the  table,  to 
their  own  apartments.  Stephen  strolled  out  into  the 
park  with  his  cigar.  He  had  no  den  within  doors,  no 
occupation  to  which  he  could  withdraw.  He  did  not 
read  ;  he  could  not  play  billiards  or  anything  else 
without  a  companion ;  and  the  billiard-room,  to  which 
he  would  have  gone  on  an  ordinary  occasion,  was  full 
of  the  memory  of  Roger,  so  that  Stephen  felt  with  a 
shudder  that  he  might  see  his  dead  brother,  or  im- 
agine he  saw  him  (for  he  was  well  aware  that  ghosts 
were  but  optical  illusions),  in  the  present  disturbed 
state  of  his  nerves,  if  he  went  there.  But  he  had  for- 
gotten, when  he  stepped  outside  into  the  soft  air  of 
the  summer  night,  that  here  were  other  associations 
not  much  more  salutary  for  his  nerves  than  a  fancied 
apparition.  How  often  had  he  gone  forth,  compla- 


376  THE   SECOND  SON. 

cent,  expanding  his  broad  chest,  pulling  down  his 
cuffs,  with  all  the  pleasure  of  a  conqueror,  to  meet  the 
little  beauty,  the  admiring  girl,  who  was  ready  to 
burn  incense  to  him  as  much  as  he  would,  ready  to 
drop  into  his  arms  as  soon  as  he  should  hold  up  a 
finger!  (Stephen  took  no  pains  to  keep  his  metaphors 
clear.)  But  now  the  very  thought  of  Lily  filled  him 
with  rage.  He  could  not  put  her  out  of  his  mind, 
now  that  he  had  come  back.  He  seemed  to  see  her 
advancing  towards  him  under  the  trees,  hurrying  to 
meet  him.  By  George !  she  wished  she  could  now, 
he  did  not  doubt.  She  would  give  her  ears  that  she 
had  not  been  such  a  fool.  She  ran  to  be  chased,  to 
be  sure  ;  the  last  thing  in  her  mind  was  to  be  lost,  to 
be  allowed  to  get  away.  He  caught  eagerly  at  this 
idea,  which  occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time.  Wo- 
men always  run  away  that  men  may  run  after  them, 
but  she  had  succeeded  better  than  she  wanted,  this 
time.  By  Jove !  if  she  had  ever  supposed  he  would 
not  have  caught  her  up,  she  would  not  have  been  in 
such  a  hurry  to  run  away :  and  then  he  began  to  com- 
pliment himself  on  his  skill  in  missing  Lily.  What 
a  life  she  would  be  leading  him  now,  if  he  had  found 
her,  if  he  had  seized  her  round  some  corner  and 
brought  her  back,  as  no  doubt  she  intended ! 

This  was  the  way  in  which  Stephen  tried  to  subdue 
the  furious  recollections  of  that  failure,  when  he 
brought  the  whole  business  back  to  his  mind  by  stroll- 
ing out  into  the  park ;  but  the  attempt  was  not  very 
successful.  He  did  not  finish  his  cigar,  but  whirled 
it  away  into  the  twilight,  as  if  it  were  a  missile  thrown 
at  Lily,  and  went  in  again,  discontented,  sulky,  miser- 
able, to  fall  into  his  father's  hands. 


XXXV. 

PATERNAL   ADVICE. 

MR.  MITFORD,  also,  was  sulky,  miserable,  and  dis- 
contented. Perhaps  in  him  it  was  grief  taking  an- 
other aspect,  different  from  that  of  common  grief. 
He  was  out  of  heart  with  himself  and  everything 
round.  Roger  was  in  his  grave,  —  all  his  own  fault, 
his  obstinacy  and  folly,  setting  himself  against  his  fa- 
ther and  everything  that  was  sensible !  But,  however 
it  came  about,  —  and  it  was  a  faint  satisfaction  to 
think  that  it  was  Roger's  own  fault,  —  the  boy  was  in 
his  grave.  There  was  nothing  more  to  discuss  about 
him  or  to  find  fault  with,  —  he  was  in  his  grave. 
The  Squire  had  a  dull  sort  of  consciousness  in  his 
mind  that  Roger  might  meet  his  mother  thereabouts, 
and  that  it  would  be  a  little  triumph  to  her  to  find 
out  that  he  had  not  succeeded  with  the  boy,  —  for 
he  had  never  agreed  with  his  wife  about  education, 
and  never  would  let  her  have  her  own  way.  She 
would  say,  "  This  would  not  have  happened  if  he  had 
taken  my  advice."  Mr.  Mitford  had  not  thought  of 
his  wife  for  a  long  time,  and  he  wondered  how  it  was 
that  this  recollection  should  seize  him  now.  It  was 
not  cheerful  in  the  library,  where  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  all  the  boys  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meet- 
ing, the  drawing-room  being  so  little  used  after  their 
mother's  death.  All  the  boys !  —  and  now  one  of 
them  was  in  his  grave ;  and  another  keeping  apart, 


378  THE  SECOND  SON. 

tacitly  blaming  his  father  (though  how  any  man  in 
his  senses  could  think  him  to  blame !)  ;  and  the  third, 
whom  he  had  himself  set  above  the  others,  made  the 
master!  Stephen  had  never  been  very  kind,  always 
a  selfish  fellow,  taking  his  own  way.  Well,  well ! 
The  Squire  said  to  himself,  with  a  sigh,  that  this  was 
how  children  treated  one,  after  all  the  trouble  they 
were  to  bring  up :  went  against  you ;  contradicted 
you ;  died  if  they  could  not  have  their  own  way  other- 
wise, and  thought  that  was  the  thing  that  would  an- 
noy you  most ;  or  sulked,  making  you  believe  that  you 
were  to  blame.  He  found  the  silence  of  his  room  in- 
tolerable, that  lingering,  slow  evening  :  the  house  was 
so  quiet.  He  could  remember  when  it  had  made  him 
very  angry  to  hear  steps  and  voices  about,  and  he  had 
said  that  the  servants  were  altogether  forgetting  them- 
selves, and  that  Larkins  and  Mrs.  Simmons  must  have 
lost  their  heads ;  but  he  would  have  been  glad  to  hear 
something  moving  to-night. 

By  and  by  he  saw  a  red  speck  in  the  distance,  in 
the  evening  gray,  coming  towards  the  house,  and 
made  out  that  it  was  Stephen  chiefly  by  that  hasty 
motion  of  flinging  his  cigar  from  him,  which  Stephen, 
on  his  side,  had  been  driven  to  do  by  the  hurry  and 
stinging  of  his  thoughts.  Mr.  Mitford  was  glad  to 
see  some  one  to  whom  he  could  talk,  some  one  who 
had  no  right  to  be  sulky;  who,  if  there  were  any 
blame,  was  worse  than  he  was,  far  more  deeply  in- 
volved, and  to  whom  he  could  furnish  matter  for 
thought  such  as  perhaps  Stephen  would  not  like. 

Short  of  getting  rid  of  our  own  discomfort,  there 
are  few  things  so  soothing  as  making  other  people 
uncomfortable,  and  the  Squire  felt  that  to  plant  Ste- 
phen's pillow  with  thorns  would  restore  a  certain  zest 


PATERNAL  ADVICE.  379 

to  life.  He  opened  his  door  accordingly,  as  his  son 
came  in,  and  said,  "  If  you  've  nothing  better  to  do, 
you  may  as  well  come  in  here  for  half  an  hour.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  have  nothing  whatever  to  do,"  returned  Stephen 
resentfully,  "  except  to  write  some  letters,"  he  added 
as  an  afterthought,  perceiving  the  snare  into  which  he 
had  fallen. 

"  You  can  write  your  letters  any  time ;  but  me  you 
may  n't  have  —  you  may  n't  have  —  so  very  long  "  — 
Mr.  Mitford  had  not  at  all  intended  to  say  anything 
of  this  lugubrious  description,  but  it  came  to  his  lips 
unawares. 

"Why,  you  are  as  hale  and  hearty  as  any  man 
could  wish  to  be  !  "  said  Stephen,  surprised. 

"  Perhaps  so,  —  perhaps  not,"  remarked  the  Squire 
oracularly.  "  Don't  vapor  about,  but  sit  down,  for 
Heaven's  sake  !  Don't  stand  and  swing  about.  It 's 
a  thing  I  cannot  bear,  as  I  always  told  "  —  He  would 
have  said  "  Roger,"  with  one  of  those  curious  returns 
upon  a  dead  name  which  so  constantly  occurs  when 
the  void  is  fresh  ;  and  though  his  feelings  were  not 
deep,  he  was  touched  by  it  in  spite  of  himself.  "  I  '11 
never  say  that  or  anything  else  to  him  again,  poor  fel- 
low !  Sit  down.  I  have  a  great  many  things  to  say." 
But  though  Stephen  sat  down  with  more  than  usual 
docility,  perhaps  moved  in  a  similar  way,  it  was  some 
time  before  his  father  spoke.  "When  he  did,  it  was  in 
the  tone  of  a  man  who  has  been  awaiting  a  tardy  re- 
sponse. "  Well !  you  know  what  I  said  about  send- 
ing in  your  papers  ?  " 

"  There  can't  be  any  such  dreadful  hurry  about  it, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  hurry.     You  've  stepped  into  the  place, 


380  THE  SECOND  SON. 

and  you  must  fill  it.  I  am  not  going  to  have  a  fellow 
here  who  is  at  home  only  when  he  pleases,  or  never  at 
home  at  all.  There  's  no  objection  to  that  on  the  part 
of  a  younger  son,  who  is  of  no  particular  account.  But 
when  you  come  to  be  the  eldest,  or  at  least  to  stand  ia 
the  place  of  the  eldest "  — 

"  There  's  many  an  eldest  son  who  is  as  much  away 
from  home  as  I  am.  When  the  man  of  the  house  is 
as  well  and  lively  as  you  are  "  — 

"  Lively,  —  with  my  poor  boy  in  his  grave  !  "  said 
the  Squire ;  and  then  he  abandoned  this  subject 
curtly.  "  There  's  a  great  deal  more  for  you  to  do," 
he  added.  "  1  '11  take  nothing  off  your  hands.  You  '11 
have  to  give  your  attention  to  Pouncefort  and  the  rest. 
I  've  come  to  a  time  of  life  when  I  don't  choose  to  be 
troubled.  I  say  when  I  don't  choose,  —  I  don't  mean 
that  I  'm  not  able  enough  to  do  whatever 's  wanted  : 
but  I  don't  choose  to  bind  myself.  You  '11  have  to 
stay  at  home  and  look  after  things." 

"  You  know  very  well  that  you  would  n't  let  me 
look  after  things,  if  I  were  to  try." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,"  returned  Mr.  Mit- 
ford,  angrily.  "  And  more  than  that,  you  must  marry 
and  settle.  It 's  not  decent  to  go  on  as  we  've  been 
doing,  without  a  woman  in  the  house." 

"  Marry !  "  said  Stephen,  with  a  low  whistle  of  ridi- 
cule and  surprise. 

"  Yes,  marry.  You  may  laugh,  —  that 's  part  of 
your  libertine  messroom  ways ;  but  in  my  day,  as  soon 
as  a  young  man  knew  how  he  was  going  to  live  he 
married,  —  it  was  the  first  thing  that  was  thought  of. 
If  you  are  to  have  Melcombe,  you  must  arrange  your 
life  accordingly." 

"  If  I  laughed,  —  and  I  did  not  laugh,  —  it  was  to 


PATERNAL   ADVICE.  381 

think  of  such  a  piece  of  advice  from  you,  when  we  're 
all  in  the  deepest  of  mourning." 

"  Well !  getting  married  is  n't  fun,  is  it  ?  "  said  the 
Squire.  "  It 's  not  a  frolic ;  and  besides,  it 's  not  a 
thing  that  can  be  done  in  a  moment.  You  can't  be 
introduced  to  a  girl  now,  and  propose  to  her  in  a 
week,  and  marry  her,  —  in  your  mourning,  as  you 
say.  Mourning  does  n't  last  long  nowadays.  If  you 
wear  a  hat-band  for  six  mouths,  I  suppose  it 's  about 
as  much  as  you  '11  do.  Dead  people  are  soon  shoveled 
out  of  the  way."  Mr.  Mitford  was  not  thinking  now 
of  Roger,  but  the  summary  way  in  which  he  himself 
would  be  disposed  of,  supposing  such  an  unlikely 
thing  to  happen  as  that  he  should  die.  The  thought 
recurred  to  him  against  his  will. 

"  You  talk,"  remarked  Stephen,  taking  his  cigar- 
case  from  his  pocket,  choosing  a  cigar,  looking  at  it  all 
round,  and  then  returning  the  case  to  his  pocket,  in 
order  to  show  by  this  expressive  pantomime  how  hard 
a  thing  it  was  to  sit  and  talk  or  be  talked  to  without 
the  help  of  smoke,  —  u  you  speak,"  he  said,  poising 
the  cigar  in  his  fingers,  "  as  if  you  had  settled  it  all ; 
not  only  the  marrying,  but  whom  I  'm  to  marry.  Oh, 
I'm  not  going  to  smoke.  It's  absurd  in  a  man's 
room,  but  I  know  there  's  no  smoking  allowed  here." 

"  In  my  day  a  man  could  listen  to  what  his  father 
had  to  say  to  him  with  a  little  respect,  without  to- 
bacco ;  or  else  he  ran  the  risk  of  being  turned  out  of 
the  house." 

"  Ah !  there 's  been  about  enough  of  that,  you  must 
think,"  Stephen  said,  with  cool  impatience.  He  be- 
gan to  examine  his  nails  as  he  spoke,  and  took  out  a 
penknife  to  scrape  off  a  sharp  corner,  with  the  air  of 
finding  this  much  more  interesting  than  anything  his 


382  THE  SECOND  SON. 

father  could  have  to  say.  And  his  words  rendered 
Mr.  Mitford  speechless,  partly  with  rage,  which  was 
an  effect  Stephen  frequently  produced  upon  him,  and 
also  because  what  he  said  was  true.  Turning  out-of- 
doors  was  not  an  experiment  to  try  again.  The  Squire 
had  not  found  it  a  successful  method.  He  could  make 
no  reply,  though  the  taunt  was  hard  to  bear.  There 
was  a  moment  of  silence,  which  Stephen  was  the  first 
to  break.  "  Well,  sir,"  he  said,  after  he  had  finished 
the  little  operation  on  his  nail,  holding  it  up  to  the 
lamp  to  see  that  it  was  even,  "  and  who  may  the  dam- 
sel be?" 

The  Squire  sat  up  in  his  chair,  red,  with  the  pulses 
throbbing  in  his  temples.  It  was  very  bad  for  him. 
The  doctors  had  told  him  so  a  dozen  times,  —  that  to 
let  himself  get  angry  and  excited  was  the  worst  thing 
he  could  do,  and  put  his  life  in  danger.  So  easy  it  is 
for  doctors  to  speak,  who  probably  have  no  sons,  or 
only  little  ones,  not  old  enough  to  drive  them  frantic 
with  constant  contradictions.  He  sat  still,  getting  the 
better  of  himself  ;  and  this  not  only  on  the  consider- 
ation of  health,  but  because  he  knew  that  his  anger 
would  have  no  effect  upon  Stephen. 

A  man  who  has  an  unrestrainable  temper  can  find 
the  means  to  restrain  his  temper  when  his  motive  is 
strong  enough ;  and  though  it  was  always  on  the  cards 
that  the  indulgence  of  it  might  bring  on  a  fit  of  apo- 
plexy, yet  Mr.  Mitford  could  hold  himself  in  check 
when  it  was  his  only  policy  to  do  so.  Besides,  there 
was  always  that  recollection  of  Roger  coming  in  to 
stop  him.  Things  might  have  succeeded  better  if  he 
had  fallen  on  some  other  way  with  Roger.  When  you 
have  tried  les  grands  moyens  and  failed,  needs  must 
that  you  should  return  to  influences  of  a  more  practi- 


PATERNAL  ADVICE.  883 

cable  kind.  But  it  was  not  for  a  considerable  time 
that  Mr.  Mitford  could  prevail  upon  himself  to  reply. 

"The  damsel!"  he  said.  "You'll  have  to  mend 
your  manners,  if  you  're  to  do  anything  there.  Ladies 
in  the  country  are  not  hail-fellow-well-met,  like  some, 
I  fear,  of  your  fast  young  women  in  London." 

"  No  ?  "  queried  Stephen.  "  I  've  always  found  them 
very  much  alike.  If  it 's  a  duchess  in  her  own 
right"  — 

"  The  lady  I  mean  is  a  great  deal  too  good  for  you, 
my  fine  fellow,  whatever  she  is." 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  in  that  case  there  was  no 
difficulty  at  all,  for  they  like  it  when  a  fellow  shows 
that  he  forgets  what  swells  they  are." 

"  She 's  no  duchess,"  said  the  father.  He  was  a 
little  nervous  about  the  announcement  he  was  going 
to  make.  "  She 's  a  very  fine  woman,  as  handsome  a 
creature  as  ever  I  saw,  and  she  has  money  enough  to 
buy  us  all  out  twice  over,  though  we  're  not  so  badly 
off  at  Melcombe  ;  and,  by  George !  I  've  set  my  heart 
on  one  of  you  having  her,  Steve !  You  're  a  man  of 
the  world  ;  you  know  sentiment  is  n't  everything,  — 
though  I  give  you  my  word  she  's  a  fine  woman  apart 
from  her  money,  and  would  be  a  credit  to  the  house." 

"  You  're  very  warm,  governor,"  observed  Stephen, 
with  a  laugh.  "  Why  don't  you  go  in  for  her  —  who 
ever  she  is  —  yourself  ?  " 

"  Pooh !  "  said  the  Squire ;  but  the  suggestion  molli- 
fied him.  He  began  to  give  his  son  a  sketch  of  the 
circumstances  ;  the  great  fortune  all  in  her  own  hands  ; 
the  old  woman  dependent  upon  her,  who  considered 
herself  the  mistress  of  the  house  ;  all  the  little  im- 
broglio of  facts  which  a  husband  would  have  to  clear 
up.  He  told  the  story  as  if  he  were  talking  of  a 


384  THE  SECOND  SON. 

stranger,  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  gone  on  with 
rising  enthusiasm  to  set  forth  the  advantages  of  old 
Travers's  London  property  and  all  his  profitable  in- 
vestments that  Stephen  suddenly  interrupted  him  with 
a  little  shout  — 

"  Why,  you  're  talking  of  Lizzy  Travers,  the  only 
woman  I  ever  loved !  " 

"None  of  your  slang,  sir.  I'm  talking,  it's  true, 
of  Miss  Travers.  What  do  you  know  of  Miss  Trav- 
ers ?  I  did  n't  know  you  had  ever  met." 

"  Governor,"  said  Stephen,  "  all  this  has  been  too 
much  for  you  ;  you  want  rest ;  you  '11  be  forgetting 
your  own  name,  next.  Why,  I  've  danced  with  her, 
ridden  with  her,  flirted  with  her.  Don't  you  recollect 
the  last  Christmas  I  spent  at  home?  By  the  way, 
though,"  said  Stephen,  pausing,  "that's  three  years 
ago,  and  the  fair  Lizzy  was  n't  a  baby  then." 

"  She  is  five-and-twenty,  —  I  know  her  age,  and  an 
admirable  age,  too :  old  enough  to  know  a  thing  or 
two;  to  be  aware  what  her  money's  worth,  for  in- 
stance, and  to  like  to  see  something  solid  in  exchange. 
Now,  Melcombe  is  all  she  could  look  for  in  that  way, 
and  if  you  see  your  true  interest,  and  can  show  her 
what  we  might  call  a  manly  devotion  "  — 

Stephen  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  '11  show  her  a  manly  de- 
votion," he  answered,  "  or  any  other  sort  she  likes. 
I  '11  be  a  troubadour  or  anything.  I  'm  not  such  a  fool 
as  not  to  see  the  use  of  a  match  like  that.  I  '11  ride 
over  and  see  her  to-morrow,  if  you  like,  sir.  I  '11  tell 
her  I  've  come  for  sympathy,  and  that  will  make  a 
very  good  opening.  Women  ai%e  fond  of  giving  con- 
solation. I  '11  tell  her  "  — 

"  Don't  go  quite  so  fast !  "  interrupted  the  Squire. 
He  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  that  Stephen  made  no 


PATERNAL  ADVICE.  385 

objection,  —  that  he  received  the  idea  "in  a  right 
spirit,"  which  was  what  neither  Roger  nor  Edmund 
had  done  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  disgusted  with 
his  son's  readiness,  and  with  the  laugh  which  accom- 
panied his  idea  of  going  to  seek  consolation.  Mr. 
Mitford  felt  at  once  that  it  was  a  very  good  idea,  and 
that  to  kick  Stephen  for  having  it  was  the  duty  of 
every  man.  He  could  not  do  this  himself,  having 
found  out,  as  already  said,  that  les  grands  moyens 
were  not  always  successful,  but  he  felt  that  it  ought  to 
be  done.  And  yet  he  was  much  satisfied  with  the  easy 
conversion  of  Stephen,  and  he  saw  that  his  idea  was  a 
good  one,  —  women  are  fond  of  consoling.  It  might 
be  that  Elizabeth  (for  the  Squire  believed  women  to 
be  wholly  unaccountable  creatures)  would  at  once  an- 
swer to  this  rule  ;  but  not  to-morrow,  not  so  fast.  In 
his  mingled  satisfaction  and  indignation  he  could  not 
say  any  more. 

"  If  that 's  all,"  said  Stephen  presently,  rising  and 
yawning  broadly  on  the  other  side  of  the  lamp,  "  I 
think  I  '11  go  off  to  bed.  It  can't  be  said,  sir,  that 
Melconibe  is  particularly  amusing  at  this  time  of  the 
year." 

"  Few  houses  are  very  amusing,"  remarked  the 
Squire  with  dignity,  "  two  days  after  the  funeral  of 
the  eldest  son." 

"To  be  sure  there's  something  in  that.  Good- 
night, then,"  said  Stephen,  again  yawning,  "  if  that 's 
all  you  've  got  to  say." 

All  he  had  got  to  say !  It  meant  only  two  lives, 
with  the  background  of  another  life  sacrificed ;  the 
one  scarcely  cold  in  his  grave,  the  others  with  long 
years  before  them  in  which  very  possibly  to  be  miser- 
able. Mr.  Mitford  sat  and  thought  it  all  over  after 


386  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Stephen  was  gone.  He  thought  it  highly  desirable 
that  Elizabeth  should  listen  to  this  dashing  sol- 
dier, this  tall,  well-set-up,  well-looking  Mitford,  the 
handsomest  of  all  the  sons.  Why  should  n't  she  ? 
The  fellow  was  a  very  good-looking  fellow,  well  born, 
with  a  good  estate  behind  him  and  a  good  position. 
There  was  nothing  so  likely  as  that  she  would  be 
charmed  with.  him.  But  whether  it  would  be  quite 
a  good  thing  for  her,  whether  she  would  live  happy 
ever  after,  was  a  thing  the  Squire  would  not  have 
taken  upon  him  to  prophesy.  Quite  probably  the 
pair  would  not  be  what  is  commonly  called  happy,  as 
Stephen  did  not  even  pretend  to  care  anything  for 
her,  nor  to  contemplate  happiness  at  all  in  the  matter  : 
and  yet  he  said,  if  that  were  all !  His  father  listened 
to  his  progress  up-stairs  to  bed  with  various  sensations, 
—  glad  of  his  acceptation  of  the  part  which  had  been 
in  vain  pressed,  upon  Roger,  yet  with  an  angry  scorn 
of  Stephen,  in  comparison  with  Roger,  which  words 
could  not  express.  She  would  have  him,  —  no  doubt 
she  would  have  him ;  and  the  Mitfords  of  Melcombe 
would  increase  and  flourish.  And  yet  how  much 
better  for  poor  Lizzy  had  it  been  Roger  who  had  been 
persuaded  to  go  a-wooing,  —  Roger  newly  laid  in  his 
grave! 

Stephen  paused  on  his  way  up-stairs  to  look  out 
of  the  long  staircase  window.  He  was  tickled  by  the 
turn  which  affairs  had  taken,  and  that  he  was  to  be 
the  man  to  marry  Lizzy  Travers  and  get  all  that 
wealth.  It  would  be  a  prodigious  bore,  but  such  a 
lot  of  money  made  almost  anything  supportable.  He 
stopped  to  look  out  upon  the  long  stretch  of  the  park, 
all  indistinct  and  blurred  in  the  dim  summer  night. 
There  lay  the  glade  where  he  had  gone  to  meet  Lily, 


PATERNAL  ADVICE.  387 

—  damn  her !  the  little  jilt,  the  little  fool  who  had 
escaped  him,  who  had  run  away  to  make  him  follow, 
whom  he  had  lost  in  the  London  streets.  If  he  could 
but  have  found  her  and  killed  her,  he  felt  as  if  he 
would  have  liked  to  do  it.  He  would  never  have 
killed  her ;  but  to  crush  her,  to  humble  her,  to  cover 
her  with  scorn  and  shame,  would  have  been  sweet. 
In  the  middle  of  his  laugh  about  Lizzy  Travers,  thus 
offered  to  him,  whom  apparently  he  had  only  to  put 
forth  his  hand  and  take,  came  in  this  image  of  the 
other,  the  country  girl  who  had  outwitted  him,  balked 
him,  jilted  him,  —  curse  her !  the  little  cheat,  the 
little  designing,  mercenary  flirt.  He  clenched  his 
hand  and  set  his  teeth  when  he  thought  of  it,  still. 
He  might  have  got  over  his  fancy  for  her,  —  indeed, 
he  had  got  over  that ;  but  the  mortification,  that  was 
not  so  easy  to  forget.  As  he  looked  out  over  the  dim 
trees  in  the  direction  of  Lily's  home,  Stephen  sud- 
denly remembered  that  the  pleasure  of  revenge  was 
now  easy  to  be  had.  If  he  could  not  reach  her,  he 
could  reach  the  father;  he  could  crush  the  family, 
he  could  turn  them  adrift  upon  the  world.  When 
she  found  herself  without  a  crust,  without  a  rag,  then 
she  would  repent  bitterly  enough,  if  she  had  not  done 
it  already.  Revenge  is  sweet,  everybody  says,  —  at 
least  the  anticipation  is  sweet.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  Stephen  would  not  in  any  case  have  carried  out 
all  that  he  intended,  but  it  gave  him  a  fierce  satisfac- 
tion to  think  he  could  bundle  Ford  out  of  the  lodge 
to-morrow,  take  his  bread  from  him  and  his  char- 
acter, and  ruin  the  bad  lot  of  them  !  He  went  up  to 
bed  solaced  by  these  thoughts,  and  presently  laughed 
again  when  he  thought  of  Lizzy  Travers,  the  heiress, 
with  all  her  money.  She  was  not  bad-looking,  either ; 


388  THE   SECOND  SON. 

not  rnind  taking  a  little  trouble.  But  first  he  would 
have  that  Lily  —  lily,  indeed !  common  weed  that  she 
was  —  cast  out  upon  a  dunghill,  to  perish  there.  Let 
us  hope  that  he  could  not  have  been  in  any  circum- 
stances so  bad  as  his  thoughts. 


XXXVI. 

AT   THE   RECTORY. 

EDMUND  had  little  heart  for  the  company  of  his 
father  and  brother ;  his  own  life  seemed  to  have 
stopped  with  Roger's.  It  was  not  only  natural  affec- 
tion and  sorrow,  but  a  sudden  dropping  of  all  the 
usual  companionship.  He  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
been  left  quite  alone.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Roger  and 
he  had  been  thrown  more  together  in  the  last  month 
or  two  than  they  had  been  since  they  were  boys ;  and 
though  they  had  both  gone  their  own  way,  and  were 
not  what  might  be  called  of  similar  tastes,  Edmund 
was  himself  surprised  to  find  how  much  he  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  talking  to  Roger  about  the  things  that 
interested  him.  Already,  in  the  short  interval  since 
his  death,  an  incredible  number  of  things  had  accu- 
mulated of  which  Edmund's  first  thought  had  been  to 
tell  them  to  Roger.  And  when  he  remembered  that 
Roger  was  no  longer  there,  and  that  there  was  nobody 
in  the  wide  world  whom  he  could  tell  them  to,  whom 
he  would  have  cared  to  tell  them  to,  a  sense  of  great 
solitude  came  upon  him.  He  felt  himself  as  if  in  a 
desert.  He  seemed  no  longer  to  know  anybody,  to  be 
able  to  exchange  a  word  with  any  one.  He  was  as 
lonely  as  if  he  had  been  upon  a  desolate  island.  Even 
little  Nina,  the  poor  little  badly  brought-up  sister,  who 
troubled  his  mind  with  her  gossip,  —  even  she  was 
gone.  With  his  father  and  Stephen  he  was  on  good 


390  THE  SECOND  SON. 

enough  terms,  with  no  suspicion  of  hostility  among 
them,  but  only  a  faint  aversion  in  his  own  mind,  a  dis- 
inclination to  have  anything  to  do  with  them.  He 
could  be  civil ;  he  could  be  no  more.  He  did  not  ac- 
cuse them  of  anything,  —  even  Stephen.  He  did  not 
in  his  heart  allow  that  Stephen  had  killed  his  brother ; 
but  he  felt  a  little  revulsion,  a  sort  of  mental  sicken- 
ing, at  the  sight  of  him.  He  had  nothing  to  say  to 
him ;  he  did  not  like  to  be  nearer  him  than  he  could 
help :  that  was  the  form  his  feeling  took. 

He  felt  a  dreary  vacancy  around  him  :  of  the  many 
things  which  had  once  interested  him,  nothing  seemed 
to  remain.  He  cared  for  nothing,  he  had  nobody  to 
whom  he  could  talk.  When  he  thought  of  it,  he  felt 
that  there  was  exaggeration  in  the  feeling,  and  that 
Eoger  in  life  had  not  really  been  everything  to  him, 
as  he  now  seemed  to  have  been.  It  was  perhaps  only 
the  form  his  sorrow  took,  —  a  sentiment  which  was  its 
own  reason,  and  for  which  no  explanation  could  be 
made.  He  scarcely  went  out  at  all  for  some  days, 
feeling  a  reluctance  to  look  at  the  face  of  the  world 
and  resume  intercourse  with  ordinary  men.  When  he 
did  go  beyond  the  limits  of  the  park,  his  feet  carried 
him,  almost  without  any  will  of  his,  to  the  Rectory. 
And  yet  it  was  the  place  to  which  he  would  have  gone 
had  he  been  in  full  possession  of  his  will,  for  there  was 
no  one,  he  felt,  who  could  understand  him  like  Pax, 
who  knew  them  both  through  and  through.  To  her  he 
could  talk.  He  had  scarcely  even  remembered  her 
existence,  in  that  first  dull  vacancy  ;  it  was  a  sign  of 
the  beginning  of  restoration  when  it  occurred  to  him 
that  with  Pax  he  could  talk  over  everything,  without 
having  to  explain. 

Thus  it  was  almost  a  disappointment  when  he  found 


AT  THE   RECTORY.  391 

the  drawing-room  at  the  Rectory  tenanted,  not  by  Pax, 
but  by  Elizabeth  Travers.  He  stopped  short,  in  the 
very  act  of  coining  in,  when  he  perceived  her.  But 
after  that  first  pause  a  shock  of  something  like  pleas- 
ure went  through  him.  Unwittingly  to  himself,  she 
did  him  more  good  by  the  mere  sight  of  her  than  Pax 
could  have  done.  The  blood  seemed  to  come  back  to 
his  heart  with  a  thrill,  and  personal  feelings,  wishes, 
consciousness,  seemed  to  awaken  suddenly,  with  a 
stinging  pain,  in  his  heart.  But  for  the  first  moment 
he  thought  he  was  disappointed,  and  that,  Pax  not 
being  there,  his  better  plan  was  to  go  away. 

Elizabeth  rose  up,  coloring  a  little.  She  colored 
still  more  when  she  saw  his  instinctive  stop,  and  said 
hurriedly,  "  Mr.  Mitford  !  Oh,  I  '11  go  and  find  Pax, 
—  she  has  only  gone  up-stairs  for  something.  I  shall 
find  her  in  a  moment !  " 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  stop  her  movement.  "  Don't 
go,"  he  pleaded,  "don't  go."  There  was  a  feeling  in 
him  as  of  the  bursting  out  of  wells  in  the  desert.  The 
heavy  vacancy  quivered  into  life.  Ah,  all  this  still 
remained,  and  he  had  thought  that  life  was  emptied 
out  and  deprived  of  all  things !  He  became  aston- 
ished at  himself. 

"  I  know  —  you  must  want  Pax  —  and  not  a 
stranger,"  Elizabeth  said,  with  a  quiver,  too,  of  sym- 
pathetic feeling. 

"  You  are  not  a  stranger,"  he  replied,  and  then  for 
a  moment  there  was  nothing  more.  He  sat  down  near 
her,  and  wondered  vaguely  whether  Roger  could  know 
that  she  was  the  first  person  he  had  seen,  the  first  to 
whom  he  would  talk,  after  what  they  had  said  to- 
gether that  night. 

It  was  she  who  broke  the  silence,  after  an  interval 
which  seemed  long  to  her,  but  not  to  him. 


392  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  We  were  very  sorry,"  she  said,  faltering,  "  very 
sorry,"  and  paused  again,  looking  at  him,  telling  him 
more  clearly  than  in  words  how  sorry  she  was,  how 
changed  she  found  him,  and  how  she  would  fain  have 
had  something  to  say  to  comfort  him.  Then  she  re- 
peated, as  if  nothing  else  would  come,  "  Very  sorry, 
both  my  aunt  and  I "  — 

"  I  knew  you  would  be.  I  think  I  ?ve  been  dead, 
too,  these  last  days." 

"  Oh !  I  have  heard  —  you  have  had  everything  to 
bear  —  and  you  look  ill.  You  must  care  a  little  for 
yourself  now." 

"  That 's  poor  comfort,"  he  returned,  "  to  care  for 
one's  self,  when  there 's  nobody  else  to  care  for." 

"  But  it  has  to  be  done,  Mr.  Mitford.  Oh,  Pax  will 
know  what  to  say  to  you  much  better  than  I  do  !  " 

u  Don't  go,"  he  begged  again,  "  don't  go,"  putting 
out  his  hand  with  an  appeal  to  her,  as  she  half  rose. 
Elizabeth  was  more  embarrassed  than  became  her  char- 
acter. She  wanted  to  escape,  and  neither  knew  how 
to  do  so  nor  what  to  say. 

"  In  any  case,"  she  said,  "  though  I  am  so  little 
qualified  to  say  so,  we  must  not  throw  away  our  lives 
because  we  are  unhappy.  We  have  all  our  own  place 
to  fill  —  perhaps  more  — perhaps  better  than  "  — 

Here  she  stopped,  reddening  with  some  emotion 
which  she  could  not  repress,  the  tears  coming  into  her 
eyes. 

Edmund  apprehended  faintly  what  she  meant. 
*'  You  do  not  know,"  he  said  hastily,  — "  no  one 
knows  —  all  that  he  was.  He  had  not  time  to  show 
what  was  in  him." 

Miss  Travers  bowed  her  head,  but  there  was  a  stiff- 
ness as  of  unconscious  opposition  in  this  assent.  "  I 
saw  —  very  little  of  him,"  she  said,  faltering. 


AT   THE  RECTORY.  393 

"  We  talked  of  you,  the  last  time  we  ever  talked  to- 
gether." 

A  sudden  blush  covered  Elizabeth's  face,  a  hot  color 
that  looked  like  anger.  She  ruade  another  little  con- 
strained bow.  "  I  don't  know  what  there  could  have 
been  to  say  of  me." 

He  did  not  make  any  reply,  for  his  mind  had  gone 
back  to  Roger's  rooms  in  town,  —  to  his  brother,  all 
unconscious  of  what  was  coming,  conscious  only  of  the 
dawn  of  a  new  life  in  himself ;  full  of  anticipations 
which  were  so  different,  so  different  from  what  had 
come.  It  was  not  till  all  this  had  passed  before  him 
that  he  remembered  what  Roger  had  said  of  Elizabeth 
and  these  prognostications,  which  were  as  little  likely 
to  come  to  pass  as  those  which  he  had  imagined  of  his 
own  career.  And  Edmund  felt  his  tongue  tied ;  he 
made  her  no  answer,  partly  because  he  could  not,  see- 
ing what  it  was  that  had  been  said,  and  partly  that  he 
would  not  lift  the  veil  from  his  dead  brother's  plans 
and  hopes. 

At  this  moment  Pax  hurried  in,  with  her  arms  held 
out  to  him  and  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  "Oh,  Ed- 
mund !  "  she  exclaimed,  grasping  him,  giving  him  a 
motherly  kiss.  "  Oh,  Edmund !  "  Not  the  worst  com- 
forters are  those  who  have  nothing  to  say  in  the  way 
of  consolation.  When  she  loosed  her  arms,  Pax  sat 
down  and  cried,  tears  not  only  of  sympathy,  but  of 
grief.  "  Tell  me,"  she  said,  sobbing,  —  "  tell  me 
everything!  I  want  to  hear  everything.  Oh,  who 
would  have  thought  it,  that  my  old  father  should  get 
better  at  eighty,  and  Roger  die  !  Oh,  my  dear  Roger ! 
my  poor  Roger  !  Tell  me  everything,  Edmund !  " 

He  did  what  she  told  him,  and  it  was  a  relief  to 
him.  There  had  been  no  occasion  to  speak  of  what 


394  THE   SECOND   SON. 

had  passed  with  those  who  knew  as  much  as  himself, 
no  family  comparison  of  what  each  individual  had 
seen  and  heard.  It  was  a  change  from  the  dreadful 
monotony  of  the  home  atmosphere,  in  which  Roger's 
name  was  no  more  mentioned,  to  live  over  all  the  in- 
cidents of  his  concluding  days  again.  He  sat  beside 
Pax,  and  told  her  everything,  as  a  brother  might  have 
done  to  a  sister  ;  she  ever  throwing  in  a  new  question, 
requiring  every  detail,  her  sobs  now  and  then  inter- 
rupting the  narrative. 

Elizabeth  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair,  then  rose  to 
go  away,  but  was  stopped  again  and  again  by  a  word 
from  Pax.  "  He  does  n't  mind  you  being  there,  and- 
I  want  you,"  she  said,  in  the  midst  of  her  tears.  Miss 
Travers  had  no  resource  but  to  stay.  She  listened 
to  the  story  of  the  death-bed,  herself  now  and  then 
greatly  moved,  yet  contending  with  her  feelings,  some- 
thing like  indignation  mingling  with  her  involuntary 
sympathy,  a  look  of  reluctance  and  resistance  on  her 
face.  She  was  angry  with  herself  for  being  so  much 
affected,  yet  unwilling  to  shed  a  tear  for  Roger.  Ed- 
mund did  not  perceive  this,  in  the  preoccupation  of 
his  own  sorrow,  —  not,  at  least,  till  he  had  nearly 
reached  the  end. 

"  And  what  part  did  Lily  Ford  take  in  all  this  ?  " 
inquired  Pax  at  last. 

At  this  utterance  Elizabeth  got  up  hurriedly  and 
went  to  the  window,  where  she  stood,  turning  her 
back  upon  them,  as  if  she  could  bear  no  more. 

"  Lily  Ford !  "  exclaimed  Edmund.  "  What  part 
should  she  have  taken  ?  She  did  not  even  know  that 
anything  had  happened,  so  far  as  I  am  aware." 

"  And  yet  the  poor  boy  was  going  to  marry  her  ' 
She  might  have  gone  and  nursed  him,  at  the  least. 


AT   THE  RECTORY.  395 

Not  that  I  hold  with  such  nursing,  but  she  might  have 
offered  —  she  might  "  — 

u  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  she  knew  anything 
about  it,"  replied  Edmund.  "  Don't  blame  her,  poor 
girl!" 

Elizabeth  turned  quickly  from  the  window.  "  Blame 
her  ?  "  she  cried,  involuntarily. 

Edmund  turned  half  round  to  look  at  her,  but  he 
had  no  clue  whatever  to  her  meaning.  He  turned 
again  to  Pax.  "  He  had  made  out  a  draft  of  a  kind 
of  settlement,"  he  said,  —  "I  found  it  among  his  pa- 
pers, —  to  secure  to  her  what  money  he  had  to  leave. 
It  was  not  very  much." 

"  That  was  like  him,''  said  Pax,  "  that  was  like  him  ! 
My  dear,  I  can't  help  being  glad  it  never  happened  ; 
but  to  take  care  of  her  future,  as  if  she  had  been 
his  own  equal,  as  if  she  had  had  people  to  look  after 
her  interests,  —  that  was  like  iny  Roger  !  Ah  !  you 
may  say  what  you  please,  all  of  you,  but  I  knew  him 
best  of  all.  He  was  in  love  with  me  once,  bless  him  ! 
—  a  woman  who  might  have  been  his  mother  !  It  was 
nonsense,  of  course,  but  it  gives  me  all  the  more  right 
to  him  now.  You  none  of  you  know  him  as  I  do ! 
And  what  will  you  do  about  it,  Edmund,  —  a  thing 
that  was  never  binding,  of  course,  and  never  could 
be?" 

"  It  shall  be  binding,"  answered  Edmund.  "  I 
shall  see  that  his  intentions  are  carried  out,  —  though 
she  did  not  deserve  that  he  should  care  for  her  so." 

"  Not  deserve !  "  cried  Elizabeth,  turning  round 
again,  the  words  bursting  from  her  in  spite  of  herself. 
Both  of  them,  Pax  drying  her  eyes,  Edmund  raising 
his  head,  looked  up  at  her,  wondering  what  she  could 
mean.  Elizabeth  was  very  much  moved ;  her  color 


396  THE  SECOND  SON. 

came  and  went.  "Mr.  Mitford,"  she  said,  "if  you 
mean  this  to  be  a  sort  of  compensation,  —  which  I 
suppose  was  its  intention  at  first,  —  I  may  say  to  you 
that  Lily  would  never  accept  it,  never !  Oh,  how 
could  you  think  of  such  a  thing  !  I  know  that  noth- 
ing but  good  should  be  said  of  the  dead,  and  I  don't 
want  to  say  a  word  —  not  a  word.  I  ana  sorry,  sorry 
to  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  for  you.  I  know  you  will 
wish  to  think  the  best,  naturally;  and  so  should  I. 
But  Lily  will  never  accept  it!  I  —  I  happen  to 
know  "  — 

It  was  with  difficulty  she  could  restrain  her  tears.  To 
see  Elizabeth,  so  composed  and  dignified  as  she  was, 
in  this  strange  state  of  excitement  bewildered  them 
both.  What  did  she  mean?  The  thought  shot  through 
Edmund's  mind  painfully,  as  if  some  one  had  thrown 
an  arrow  or  a  missile  at  him,  that  she  had  cared  for 
Roger  more  than  she  was  aware,  that  she  had  resented 
his  love  for  Lily,  that  Elizabeth  was  another  victim. 
If  it  were  so,  Roger  had  never  suspected  it,  and  in 
that  case  all  was  waste,  Elizabeth's  love  as  well  as  the 
rest,  —  though  had  it  but  come  to  him !  He  looked 
at  her  with  a  pang  that  seemed  to  cut  his  heart  in 
two.  Elizabeth's  love  all  wasted,  when  it  might  have 
made  the  world  bloom  again,  and  brought  Eden  out 
of  the  wilderness!  The  thought  was  very  bitter,  and 
the  thought  that  she  herself  resented  it,  angry,  ex- 
cited, covering  a  pang  which  no  doubt  mortified  as 
well  as  wounded  her  with  this  fierceness  about  Lily  ; 
taking  Lily's  part,  as  if  Roger  had  meant  her  any 
wrong. 

"She  knows  something  we  don't  know,"  observed 
Pax.  "  You  would  not  speak  like  that,  Elizabeth, 
without  thinking  you  had  some  reason." 


AT   THE   RECTORY.  397 

"  I  have  reason;  there  is  no  thinking!  Oh,"  said 
Elizabeth,  wringing  her  hands,  "  it  's  not  a  moment 
to  say  anything  !  I  am  very  wrong  to  have  said  any- 
thing. I  am  going  home.  I  can't  help  it  if  I  don't 
feel  as  yon  do.  I  am  very,  very  sorry,  all  the  same, 
Mr.  Mitford,  for  you." 

"  Let  me  go  away,  not  you,"  said  Edmund,  rising : 
"it  is  time  I  did.  It  has  done  me  a  great  deal  of 
good  to  tell  Pax.  Thank  you  for  your  sympathy, 
Miss  Travers.  One  day  I  wanted  to  tell  you  what 
Roger  said,  and  perhaps  that  day  may  come  still,  but 
I  see  it  cannot  be  now.  Perhaps  there  were  things 
he  did  not  understand.  He  may  have  been  absorbed 
in  a  foolish  thought,  and  not  have  perceived  what  was 
a  great  deal  more  worth  thinking  of."  Edmund 
stopped  when  he  had  made  this  strange  apology,  re- 
membering that  if  his  discovery  were  a  real  one,  this 
was  not  what  Elizabeth  would  wish  to  have  said ;  but 
it  was  too  late  to  draw  back. 

Whatever  she  meant,  however,  it  was  clear  enough 
that  she  did  not  understand  what  he  meant.  She 
looked  him  in  the  eyes  in  a  strange  way,  with  a 
fixed  look,  as  if  trying  to  convict  him  of  something, 
he  had  not  the  least  idea  what.  They  looked  earn- 
estly at  each  other :  he  sorrowfully,  grieving  for  her, 
for  himself,  for  Roger,  for  everything  thus  lost  and 
wasted ;  she  severely,  scarce  able  to  contain  herself, 
moved  in  a  more  intolerable  way  by  the  contradic- 
tion of  some  indignant  resentment  which  contended 
with  all  the  softer  feelings  in  her  heart.  To  both 
there  came  a  vague  sense  that  there  was  something 
more  on  either  side  than  either  comprehended,  which 
neither  could  divine.  Pax  looked  at  them  both  with 
lips  apart,  with  a  gaze  of  wonder.  It  was  seldom 


398  THE   SECOND  SON. 

that  she  had  a  difficulty  before  her  which  quite  tran- 
scended her  power  of  divination. 

"  Yes,  Edmund,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  go ;  we  have 
had  our  cry  together,  and  it  has  done  us  both  good. 
And  Lizzy  and  you  will  never  understand  each  other 
in  this  way.  Leave  her  with  me.  Whatever  her 
reason  is  it  can't  be  a  true  one  against  our  boy.  We 
know  better  than  that.  Good-by,  Edmund,  my  dear !  " 
Pax  took  him  in  her  large  embrace  again,  and  put  her 
wet  cheek  against  his.  "  It 's  miserable  now,"  she 
said,  "  but  it  will  not  be  so  forever.  God  bless  you, 
my  dear ! " 

He  went  away  almost  without  looking  round. 
Elizabeth  held  out  her  hand  to  him  suddenly,  as  he 
passed  her,  and  her  hand  trembled ;  but  he  did  not 
know  why,  unless  it  was  for  the  dear  sake  of  Roger, 
against  whom  she  was  angry,  he  could  not  tell  why. 
Because  he  had  not  loved  her,  —  because  he  had  loved 
Lily  Ford  ?  Would  a  wroman  be  angry  still,  when  the 
man  was  dead,  at  such  a  wrong?  It  seemed  more  fit 
that  Edmund  should  be  angry  against  Fate,  who  had 
thus  let  everything  run  to  waste,  and  taken  from  him 
all  hope  of  a  new  spring  of  life.  But  he  had  not  the 
heart  for  any  such  feeling. 

He  went  to  the  churchyard,  on  his  way  home, 
and  lingered  long,  looking  at  the  outside  of  the 
vault  in  which  Roger  had  been  placed.  There  was 
not  so  much  comfort  in  it  as  there  would  have  been 
in  the  sod  of  a  visible  grave.  It  seemed  to  wrap  the 
dead  in  a  deeper  darkness,  to  misrepresent  all  life  and 
the  meaning  of  life  ;  as  if  everything  were  to  fall  into 
subterranean  gloom,  and  all  possibilities  were  to  be 
piled  together  like  so  much  rubbish  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth. 


XXXVII. 

EDMUND   OUT   OF  HEART. 

THERE  were  some  subjects  which  were  altogether 
ignored  at  Melcorabe  during  the  somewhat  sombre 
period  which  the  three  gentlemen  spent  together  there. 
They  met  scarcely  at  all,  except  at  meals,  and  when 
they  talked,  which  was  never  much,  it  was  on  public 
and  impersonal  subjects.  Political  questions  had 
never  been  so  thoroughly  discussed  in  the  house : 
they  were  more  or  less  safe  subjects.  Mr.  Mitford 
and  Stephen  were  naturally  Tories  of  the  old  school, 
who  followed  their  party  steadily,  without  any  idea 
of  independent  judgment.  It  would  have  been  against 
Mr.  Mitford's  principles  to  think  on  these  matters : 
his  ideas  had  been  defined  from  before  the  beginning 
of  time.  He  thought  as  his  father  did,  and  as  he 
fully  expected  his  son  should  do.  Roger,  had  he 
lived,  would  have  carried  out  the  tradition  faithfully 
enough,  though  with  a  more  reasonable  devotion  to 
the  tenets  in  which  he  had  been  trained.  And  Ste- 
phen, whose  only  virtuous  point  was  a  capacity  for 
understanding  discipline  and  the  power  of  author- 
ity, followed  his  father  closely,  and  was  stanch  as 
steel  to  the  tradition  of  that  old  stubborn,  all-resist- 
ing conservatism  which  is  a  most  respectable  senti- 
ment, and  has  perhaps  done  England  more  good  than 
all  the  new  theories  in  the  world.  Edmund,  also  in 
strict  conformity  to  nature,  was  of  a  totally  different 


400  THE   SECOND  SON. 

frame  of  mind.  He  was  the  second  son.  He  was 
in  her  Majesty's  opposition.  But  as  he  had  no  special 
political  fervor  or  impassioned  creed,  his  politics  were 
much  more  theoretical  than  practical ;  he  had  none  of 
the  martyr  impulse  in  him,  and  he  was  strong  in  that 
slightly  contemptuous  toleration  which  the  only  intel- 
lectual member  of  a  family  often  feels  for  those  who 
are  not  in  the  least  given  to  independent  thought. 
He  knew  he  could  not  convince  them,  nor  even  make 
his  point  of  view  comprehensible  to  them,  so  he  re- 
frained from  controversy.  And  in  the  present  state 
of  affairs  it  was  a  relief  to  let  them  talk  upon  sub- 
jects of  public  moment  on  which  they  were  entirely 
agreed,  and  on  which  he  could  occasionally  say  his  say 
without  too  much  offense.  But  on  subjects  more 
familiar  there  was  little  said.  Roger  was  not  named 
among  them,  nor  did  any  one  speak  of  the  future  or  of 
what  he  intended  to  do.  There  were  no  confidences 
of  any  description  in  the  strange  little  male  group, 
which  was  a  family  party,  yet  had  so  little  of  the 
character  of  a  family  in  it.  Even  little  Nina,  as  Ed- 
mund felt  more  and  more,  would  have  been  a  relief. 
It  would  have  been  possible  to  say  to  her,  "  What  are 
you  going  to  do  this  morning?  Do  you  intend  to 
walk,  or  to  ride,  or  to  drive  ?  "  Such  questions  were 
not  put  to  each  other  by  the  three  men,  who  only  re- 
marked that  it  was  a  fine  day  ;  that  Lord  So-and- 
So  made  a  very  good  speech  last  night ;  that  Tred- 
gold,  as  chairman  of  quarter  sessions,  was  ridiculously 
out  of  place  ;  and  that  what  with  competitive  exami- 
nations and  all  that  the  country  was  going  to  wreck 
and  ruin.  Edmund,  for  one,  longed,  amid  all  this 
talk,  to  be  able  to  say  to  Nina,  "  "What  are  you  going 
to  do  to-day  ? "  but  to  Stephen  he  did  not  put  that 


EDMUND  OUT  OF  HEART.  401 

question,  even  when  he  had  a  distinct  interest  in 
knowing  what  Stephen  meant  to  do. 

His  special  interest  in  this  question  arose  from 
the  fact  that  Stephen  and  his  father  had  spoken,  in 
his  hearing,  of  the  household  at  Mount  Travers  in  a 
manner  which  vaguely  but  powerfully  excited  Ed- 
mund. He  had  himself  found  his  way  there  soon  after 
his  meeting  with  Miss  Travers  at  the  Rectory,  and 
had  been  puzzled,  yet  not  discouraged,  by  his  recep- 
tion. Elizabeth  had  received  him  with  something 
which  looked  almost  like  agitation,  —  agitation  sup- 
pressed and  only  to  be  divined,  yet  which  betrayed 
itself  to  an  observer  so  sympathetic  in  little  changes 
of  color  and  momentary  tremors,  in  sudden  impulses 
and  self  -  resti'aints,  which  were  scarcely  comprehen- 
sible and  very  perplexing.  When  any  allusion  was 
made  to  Roger,  she  stiffened  at  once  into  a  mai'ble- 
like  impassiveness,  more  significant  in  the  studied 
absence  of  all  expression  than  the  utmost  show  of 
feeling,  keeping  all  his  questions  back.  Was  it  an 
injured  sense  of  love  rejected  ?  Was  it  the  indigna- 
tion and  wounded  delicacy  of  a  woman  who  felt  her- 
self slighted  for  an  object  much  less  worthy?  Ed- 
mund was  unable  to  solve  this  mystery. 

What  made  it  still  more  difficult  to  understand  was 
that  Pax  also  put  on  to  some  degree  the  same  manner, 
checking  him  in  those  talks  which  were  almost  the 
only  relief  his  mind  had  by  a  hurried  "  Poor  Roger !  " 
accompanied  by  a  shake  of  the  head  and  a  change  of 
subject,  such  as  Edmund  found  it  still  more  difficult  to 
understand.  "  God  forgive  him,  poor  boy,  for  all  his 
imperfections  !  Let 's  say  no  more,  —  let 's  say  no 
more  about  it.  By  and  by  it  won't  be  so  hard,"  Pax 
said  once.  Why  should  it  be  hard  to  speak  of  him, 


402  THE  SECOND  SON. 

now  or  at  any  time  ?  To  protest  against  the  prayer 
that  God  might  forgive  him  would  have  been  vain 
indeed,  for  the  best  of  men  must  have  need  to  be  for- 
given ;  but  when  that  is  said  between  people  who  loved 
him,  of  one  who  is  dead,  it  means  something  more 
than  the  imperfections  which  all  men  have  before 
God.  Edmund  was  greatly  perplexed  and  unhappy, 
notwithstanding  that  there  were  in  Elizabeth's  man- 
ner to  himself  many  signs  which  a  vainer  man  might 
have  built  much  upon  :  an  air  of  almost  tenderness  in 
her  look,  a  softness  in  her  voice,  as  if  sympathy  for 
Edmund  were  somehow  involved  in  her  singular  repug- 
nance to  any  mention  of  his  dead  brother.  Edmund 
frequented  the  roads  between  Melcombe  and  Mount 
Travers  with  a  fascination  for  which  he  could  scarcely 
account  to  himself.  He  wanted  to  see  her,  to  speak 
to  her  of  that  last  conversation  with  Roger,  to  tell 
her  a  tale  which  was  all  woven  in  with  his  brother's 
memory  ;  and  the  more  Elizabeth  stiffened  at  all  ref- 
erence to  him,  the  more  indispensable  it  seemed  to 
Edmund  that  she  should  know  the  complications  of 
his  story.  He  had  been  silent  before  for  Roger's 
sake,  and  now  she  would  give  him  no  chance  to  show 
her  what  was  in  his  heart. 

He  was  so  intent  upon  the  explanation  that  he  for- 
got how  impossible  it  ought  to  be  for  him,  the  disin- 
herited, to  approach  the  heiress.  Of  that  secondary 
subject  he  never  thought  at  all.  Perhaps  it  showed  a 
dulness  of  perception  in  him.  His  mind  was  so  full 
of  what  he  had  to  say  to  her,  of  the  story  he  would  so 
fain  have  poured  into  her  ear,  of  his  long  doubt  and 
uncertainty,  and  final  liberation  from  all  hindrances, 
that  he  had  no  time  to  be  tormented  by  the  thought  of 
her  great  fortune  and  his  small  one.  That  considera- 


EDMUND   OUT  OF  HEART.  403 

tion  no  more  entered  into  his  mind  than  it  would  have 
entered  into  hers.  A  woman,  in  such  a  case,  is  better 
off  than  a  man  ;  but  Edmund  was  as  free  from  painful 
calculations  of  this  sort  as  Elizabeth  herself  could 
have  been.  He  forgot  that  what  might  have  seemed 
to  some  supersensitive  minds  a  new  barrier  between 
them  had  come  into  existence.  He  was  so  much  occu- 
pied by  other  matters,  by  perplexity  about  her  feelings 
and  desire  to  disclose  his  own,  that  he  had  no  leisure 
to  think  of  anything  else.  And  yet,  though  he  was  so 
eager  to  tell  her  his  story,  which  was  in  reality  the 
story  of  several  past  years,  Edmund  could  not  find  op- 
portunity nor  courage  to  do  so.  Day  after  day  he 
walked  to  the  very  gate,  and  then  turned  back,  his 
heart  having  failed  him.  Once  or  twice  he  had  gone 
farther,  as  far  as  the  drawing-room,  with  its  great 
plate-glass  windows,  when  the  sight  of  that  sudden 
shutting  up  of  her  countenance  silenced  him  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  took  all  strength  from  him.  In  this  way 
Elizabeth  occupied  his  mind  almost  more  than  had  she 
been  his  affianced  bride.  He  could  not  make  out  the 
meaning  of  that  look,  almost  stern  in  its  sudden  re- 
pression, or  of  the  melting  kindness  with  which  she 
would  turn  to  him  after  she  had  thus  silenced  him. 
Something  stood  between  them, — he  could  not  tell 
what ;  a  shadow  of  Roger,  a  ghost  which  came  chill 
between  the  two  whom  Roger  had  wished  to  see  one. 
There  could  not  be  any  doubt  that  it  was  Roger  who 
was  that  shadow,  but  how  or  why  Edmund  could  not 
divine.  Had  she  loved  him  who  had  not  loved  her  ? 
Did  she  find  herself  unable  to  forgive  him  who  had 
never  divined  that  love,  who  had  given  his  less  wor- 
thily ?  But  why  then  that  softened  look,  that  melting 
tone,  to  Edmund  ?  He  was  bewildered  by  this  ques- 


404  THE  SECOND  SON. 

tion  ;  it  paralyzed  him ;  the  words  died  from  his  lips, 
though  he  knew  that  until  he  said  them  he  could  have 
no  rest. 

But  when  he  became  aware  that  the  same  subject 
was  being  discussed  between  Stephen  and  his  father,  a 
singular  excitement  took  possession  of  Edmund.  He 
remembered  the  discussions  between  the  Squire  and 
Roger,  the  recommendations  which  were  commands  on 
one  side,  and  insults  on  the  other,  —  commands  to  his 
son  to  secure  the  heiress,  insulting  enumerations  of  the 
advantages  to  follow.  Had  this  process  begun  over 
again  ?  Had  Stephen  lent  an  ear  more  attentive  than 
that  of  his  elder  brother  to  these  inducements  and 
recommendations,  and  was  Edmund's  brother  again, 
and  this  time  in  earnest,  to  be  his  rival  ?  The  sugges- 
tion made  his  blood  boil.  Stephen  to  pretend  to  Eliz- 
abeth Travel's!  Stephen,  who  made  no  secret  of  his 
own  estimate  of  women,  and  whose  associates  among 
them  were  sufficiently  well  known  !  He,  with  his  gar- 
rison-town associations,  his  intrigues,  his  cynical  in- 
capacity for  deeper  emotion,  —  could  it  be  in  the  pos- 
sibilities of  the  future  that  Elizabeth  had  been  re- 
served for  him  ?  Edmund's  blood  boiled  at  the 
thought.  He  said  to  himself  that  it  was  impossible,  — 
that  it  could  not  be  ;  but  then  he  remembered  how 
many  things  that  are  seemingly  impossible  come  to 
pass,  especially  in  such  concerns.  The  shadow  of 
Roger  stood  between  himself  and  the  woman  he  loved, 
but  no  such  shadow  was  upon  Stephen.  Stephen  would 
never  perceive,  even  if  it  did  exist  for  him,  that  inde- 
finable something  which  closed  Edmund's  lips  and 
made  his  heart  fail  him.  Stephen  would  go  forward 
boldly,  whatever  were  the  circumstances.  No  scare  of 
the  imagination  would  prevent  him  from  pressing  his 


EDMUND   OUT  OF  HEART.  405 

suit.  And  who  would  say  that  amid  all  these  compli- 
cations Elizabeth  herself  might  not  find  a  certain  re- 
lief in  the  addresses  of  a  man  who  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  past,  whose  image  was  not  involved  with 
Roger's,  and  who,  though  his  brother,  had  so  little  in 
common  with  him,  and  was  so  entirely  a  new  depart- 
ure, a  fresh  competitor  ?  In  the  hurrying  excitement 
of  his  thoughts  at  sight  of  this  new  possibility,  Ed- 
mund could  not  but  see  all  that  was  in  its  favor.  He 
was  well  aware  of  Stephen's  advantages,  —  his  good 
looks,  his  self-assurance,  his  boldness,  even  his  posi- 
tion as  virtually  a  stranger,  an  individuality  little 
known.  All  this  struck  him  with  a  horror  which  was 
not  to  be  expressed.  That  which  Roger  in  his  folly 
had  not  sought,  but  might  perhaps  have  obtained,  that 
which  Edmund  himself  would  give  his  life  for,  —  to 
think  that  it  might  come  to  Stephen  at  last !  He  said 
to  himself  that  it  was  not  possible;  that  Elizabeth's 
perceptions  were  too  fine,  her  taste  too  delicate,  —  for 
such  a  catastrophe,  —  but  who  could  tell  ?  How  many 
tender  women  had  fallen  victims  before  to  men  as  un- 
worthy of  them !  How  often  had  all  prognostications 
been  defied  and  all  finer  divination  suspended  1  —  for 
what  could  a  woman  really  know  of  a  man,  in  such 
circumstances,  but  the  outward  impression  which  he 
made,  and  how  often  was  that  outward  impression  a 
false  one ! 

This  was  the  thought  which  eventually  roused  Ed- 
mund out  of  the  lethargy  into  which  he  had  fallen. 
All  the  circumstances  of  his  present  position  had  com- 
bined to  hold  him  in  that  suspense  of  being.  Grief 
and  that  sense  of  injury  with  which  such  a  grief  is  so 
often  accompanied,  the  feeling  of  un worthiness  tri- 
umphant, and  the  nobler  and  more  true  swept  away 


406  THE  SECOND  SON. 

before  the  tide  of  successful  wrong,  —  Roger  fallen, 
and  Stephen  raised  in  his  place,  —  produced  of  them- 
selves a  partial  arrest  of  all  Edmund's  faculties.  The 
feeling  was  not  a  selfish  one.  He  had  never  antici- 
pated, never  contemplated,  the  position  of  heir  and 
future  head  of  the  family;  but  the  extraordinary 
overturn  of  all  justice  or  any  moral  balance  in  the 
world,  when  the  good  and  true  were  thus  thrown 
down  to  make  way  for  the  false  and  evil,  produced  in 
him  that  pause  of  hopelessness,  that  sense  of  inca- 
pacity to  understand  or  contend  with  the  apparently 
blind  and  inexorable  fate  that  seems  so  often  to  shape 
human  affairs,  which  makes  action  impossible,  and 
sickens  the  heart.  And  then  the  curious  attitude  of 
Elizabeth,  as  incomprehensible  as  fate,  repelling  and 
attracting  him  at  once,  added  so  much  more  to  the 
paralyzing  effect.  But  when  he  thought  of  Stephen's 
possible  suit,  the  suit  that  he  divined  with  an  angry 
alarm  which  was  more  than  jealousy,  Edmund's  dor- 
mant energy  awoke.  The  man  who  had  taken  his  in- 
heritance, who  had  killed  his  brother,  who  had  ruined 
Lily  Ford,  should  not,  must  not,  soil  the  pure  name 
and  break  the  heart  of  Elizabeth  Travers.  No  !  She 
might  not  be  for  Edmund, —  he  believed  she  would 
never  be  for  him,  —  but  she  must  not  be  thrown  away 
upon  one  unworthy. 

Lily  Ford!  Edmund  came  to  himself  after  the 
long  suspension  of  his  energies :  he  had  not  done  his 
duty  by  his  dead  brother  in  this  respect,  at  least,  which 
Roger  would  have  thought  the  most  important  of  all. 
He  had  not  sought  out  Lily,  nor  tried  to  save  her, 
nor  carried  out  Roger's  wishes  in  regard  to  her.  Ed- 
mund did  not  believe  that  it  was  possible  to  save 
Lily ;  but  wherever  the  poor  girl  now  was,  she  could 


EDMUND   OUT  OF  HEART.  407 

not  but  be  in  trouble  and  misery,  and  to  find  her 
might  be  to  save  Elizabeth.  The  notion  was,  if  not 
selfish,  yet  not  single.  It  aimed  at  two  objects,  and 
the  less  direct  was  the  more  important  in  his  eyes. 
But  yet,  apart  from  Elizabeth  and  all  her  concerns, 
he  had  a  duty  to  Lily,  too.  He  was  the  executor  of 
Roger's  wishes,  and  it  ought  to  have  been  his  first 
business  to  find  her.  What  matter  that  the  thought 
of  her  was  odious  to  him ;  that  she  embodied  in  her 
slightness  and  trifling  unimportance  all  the  misfor- 
tunes that  had  crushed  Roger,  —  the  loss  of  his  tran- 
quillity, his  fortune,  his  career,  finally  his  very  life  ? 
A  creature  of  so  little  account,  with  nothing  but  her 
prettiness,  her  foolish  education ;  a  girl  whom  Ste- 
phen's careless  wooing  could  lead  to  her  destruction, 

—  and  she  had  cost  Roger  everything,  his  happiness 
and  his  life !     The  thought  roused  in  Edmund  a  silent 
rage  against  human  fate  and  the  helplessness  of  man, 
and  towards  her,  the  trifling  instrument  of  so  much 
harm,  a  sick  contempt  and  indignation,  a  horror  of 
the   sight  of  her  and  of  her  ill-omened  name.     But 
yet  he  had  a  duty  to  fulfill,  and  perhaps — perhaps 

—  her  story  might  yet  be  of  some  service ;  it  might 
save  Elizabeth.    It  was  this  hope,  more  than  any  juster 
sentiment,  which  turned  his  steps  toward  the  West 
Lodge.     Mrs.  Ford  had  appealed  to  him  to  find  her 
daughter ;  and  though  he  had  not  succeeded  in  doing 
that,  the    appeal   justified  his   inquiries.     Time   had 
flown  heavily  but  quickly  during  this  interval  of  in- 
action; yet,  after  all,  a  month  had  not  passed  since 
Roger's  death. 


XXXVIII. 

THE  WEST  LODGE. 

IT  was  about  noon  when  Edmund  approached  the 
lodge,  and  everything  recalled  to  him  the  last  time 
he  had  been  there,  which  was  so  short  a  while  ago, 
and  yet  seemed  to  belong  to  another  life.  He  remem- 
bered every  incident,  even  all  the  appearances,  of  that 
day :  the  anxious  mother  hurrying  out  at  the  sound 
of  his  step  ;  the  father,  all  blanched  in  his  rough  out- 
of-door  redness  and  brownness  with  the  horror  of  a 
catastrophe  which  was  worse  than  death ;  his  passion 
and  threats  against  the  man  who  had  betra}-ed  his 
child,  and  the  woman's  pitiful  attempts  to  restrain,  to 
comfort  him,  while  herself  in  the  grip  of  despair. 
Poor  people !  tragic  as  their  unintended  influence  had 
been,  they  themselves  were  not  less  to  be  pitied  on 
that  account ;  and  he  conjured  up  before  him  the  mis- 
erable little  house  with  all  its  happiness  blighted,  the 
shame  that  had  taken  the  place  of  their  foolish,  in- 
nocent pride,  the  weight  of  suspense,  or  still  more 
terrible  knowledge,  that  must  have  crushed  the  un- 
happy father  and  mother,  so  that  his  heart  had  be- 
come very  tender  towards  the  unfortunate  couple  be- 
fore he  reached  their  door.  After  all,  they  were  not 
to  blame  ;  and  they  had  suffered  even  more  bitterly 
than  the  family  of  the  other  victim. 

It  seemed  to  Edmund  that  he  must  see  tokens  of 
their  wretchedness  in  the  very  air,  as  he  drew  near 


THE  WEST  LODGE.  409 

the  little  flowery  place  which  had  once  been  their 
pride  ;  and  to  see  the  garden  as  bright  as  ever,  the 
tall  lilies,  from  which  their  child  had  got  her  name, 
standing  with  all  their  buds  ready  to  open  along  the 
sunny  boi-ders,  and  everything  in  summer  order,  full 
of  sweetness  and  bloom,  filled  him  with  involuntary 
surprise.  The  morning  sun  shone  upon  the  red  roof 
and  waving  trees  ;  the  door  stood  open  ;  a  tranquil 
cat  lay  sunning  herself  upon  the  window  ledge ;  a 
brood  of  little  yellow  chickens  flitted  about  under  the 
charge  of  an  anxious  mother  hen.  Nothing  more 
peaceful,  more  full  of  humble  ease  and  comfort,  could 
be.  The  whole  seemed  to  breathe  a  silent  contradic- 
tion to  Edmund's  troubled  thoughts.  Yet  the  sun 
will  shine,  the  flowers  will  bloom,  the  unconscious 
creatures  thrive  and  enjoy  their  little  life,  whatever 
misery  may  reign  within  the  house,  he  said  to  himself, 
with  a  curious  sense  of  incongruity,  almost  of  disap- 
pointment. 

To  his  astonishment,  he  heard  voices  in  raised  and 
angry  tones  within  the  house,  and,  unconsciously  lis- 
tening, distinguished  with  consternation  indescribable 
the  voice  of  Stephen  addressing  some  one  with  loud 
authority.  "  You  must  clear  out  of  here  !  "  he  was 
saying,  in  a  tone  so  little  subdued  that  any  passer-by 
must  have  heard.  "  I  know  nothing  about  notice.  I 
tell  you  you  must  clear  out  of  here.  I  want  the  place. 
Get  out  at  once :  do  you  hear  ?  You  '11  be  paid  in 
place  of  your  notice,  if  you  've  any  right  to  it,  which 
I  don't  believe  you  have.  You  think  I  'm  to  be  put 
off  with  tricks  and  excuses,  to  gain  time,  but  you  're 
mistaken.  You  must  get  out  to-morrow  at  latest:  do 
you  hear  ?  I  want  the  place  for  a  servant  of  my 
own." 


410  THE  SECOND   SON. 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Ford,  "  my  'us- 
band  's  not  here,  and  I  can't  make  you  no  answer ; 
but  turn  a  servant  away  there 's  no  master  can,  with- 
out warning.  I  've  been  in  service  all  my  life,  and  if 
I  did  n't  know  that,  who  should  ?  It 's  all  the  pro- 
tection poor  servants  has.  I  'm  not  saying  nothing 
again  going  "  — 

"  You  had  better  not,"  said  Stephen,  "  or  I  '11  have 
you  turned  out,  which  perhaps  would  be  the  quickest 
way." 

"  I  said  as  I  'm  not  saying  nothing  again  going," 
said  Mrs.  Ford,  raising  her  voice.  "  We  've  allays 
meant  to  go.  It 's  not  as  if  we  were  badly  off  or  had 
no  friends ;  and  Ford  is  n't  one  as  can  stand  new 
masters  and  new  laws.  He  's  ready  to  go,  but  he 
won't  go  without  his  warning,  as  if  he  was  turned  off 
for  something  bad.  I  don't  want  to  say  nothing  dis- 
respectful, but  we  has  our  pride  the  same  as  other 
folks,  and  Ford,  he  won't  stir  without  his  legal  warn- 
ing. I  mightn't  stand  out  myself,"  the  woman  con- 
tinued, with  a  sound  as  of  coming  tears,  "  for  the  sake 
of  peace,  but  Ford,  he 's  not  that  sort  of  a  man ;  he  '11 
not  be  turned  out  like  a  thief,  —  him  as  has  served 
the  Squire  man  and  boy." 

"  Don't  give  me  any  of  your  impudence,"  said  Ste- 
phen ;  "  that  is  just  how  he  shall  be  turned  out.  I 
give  you  your  choice,  —  clear  out  at  once,  or  I  '11  have 
the  police  to-morrow  to  throw  your  things  out  of  the 
window.  Hallo !  what  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

This  was  addressed  to  Edmund,  who  had  come  in 
unnoticed,  behind  him,  to  the  little  trim  kitchen,  where 
Mrs.  Ford  stood  on  her  own  hearth  as  in  a  citadel, 
flushed,  with  a  look  of  resistance  on  her  homely  face, 
but  her  apron  in  her  hand,  ready  to  wipe  off  the 


THE  WEST  LODGE.  411 

angry  tears  which  were  very  near  coming,  and  a  husk- 
mess  growing  in  her  throat. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Edmund.  "There 
must  be  some  mistake.  I  could  not  help  hearing 
what  you  were  saying.  What  has  Ford  done  ?  My 
father  would  never  bundle  them  out  in  this  way  unless 
there  's  a  very  serious  reason ;  he  will  listen  to  what 
they  've  got  to  say." 

Stephen  turned  round  upon  his  brother  with  a 
flushed  and  furious  face.  "You  had  better  mind 
your  own  business,  Ned  !  I  've  got  this  to  do,  and 
I  '11  allow  no  one  to  interfere." 

"  And  as  for  what  we  've  got  to  say,"  cried  Mrs. 
Ford  shrilly,  turning  upon  the  new-comer,  —  "  we  've 
got  nothing  to  say,  sir.  I  wouldn't  stay,  not  if  I 
was  paid  to  do  it.  We  've  got  better  friends  than 
ever  the  Mitfords  was,  that  won't  see  us  put  upon. 
And  there  's  no  man  livin'  as  can  have  a  better  char- 
acter than  my  man.  But  we  '11  have  our  warning. 
Police  !  Them  that  dares  name  such  a  name  to  me 
know  well  as  my  man 's  out  o'  the  way,  and  I  've  no- 
body to  stand  up  for  me.  Police  !  "  Her  voice  ran 
off  into  a  shriek.  "  For  shame  of  yourselves  as  call 
yourselves  gentlefolks,  and  can  come  and  insult  a  wo- 
man like  that !  " 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,"  repeated  Edmund. 
"  No  one  shall  insult  you  while  I  am  here.  Stephen," 
—  he  turned  and  faced  his  brother,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  arm,  —  "  whatever  you  have  against  these  peo- 
ple, let  it  be  referred  to  my  father.  You  know  he  will 
never  turn  them  out ;  and  it 's  not  for  you  "  — 

Stephen  threw  up  the  arm  which  his  brother  had 
touched  with  a  fierce  gesture,  which  brought  back  to 
both  their  minds  another  scene.  He  was  about  to  re- 


412  THE   SECOND  SON. 

ply  furiously,  but  the  angry  exclamation  was  stopped 
on  his  lips  by  that  recollection.  He  gave  Edmund  a 
look  of  baffled  rage.  "  I  '11  refer  it  to  no  man,"  he 
cried,  "  and  I  '11  be  questioned  by  no  man,  and  I  '11 
not  argue  with  you,  either.  You  know  what  I  've  got 
to  say.  Clear  out  of  this  at  once,  or  by  Jove  !  I  '11"  — 
Stephen,  however,  was  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  like 
other  people.  He  could  not  stand  against  the 
thoughts  thus  evoked.  He  turned  round  upon  his  heel 
and  quitted  the  house,  leaving  his  threat  unsaid.  The 
ghost  of  Roger  came  up  again,  and  protected  the  hum- 
ble place.  He  could  not  stand  before  that  shadow, 
though  he  saw  nothing,  and  though  he  was  not  in  any 
way  turned  from  his  purpose  ;  but  for  the  moment  his 
soul  was  disturbed,  and  he  could  say  no  more. 

Mrs.  Ford  did  not  know  why  he  had  abandoned  the 
field.  She  thought  it  was  perhaps  Edmund,  always 
her  friend,  who  had  driven  forth  the  enemy ;  but  when 
the  angry  visitor  had  withdrawn,  those  tears  which 
were  so  near  falling  came  at  once.  "  Oh,  that  any 
gentleman  should  have  named  the  police  to  me !  "  she 
cried.  "  Oh,  that  I  should  have  lived  to  be  threatened 
with  that,  and  my  things  thrown  out  o'  window  !  Mr. 
Edmund,  don't  say  nothing,  for  I  '11  never  forget  it, 
I  '11  never  forget  it ;  not  if  the  Squire  was  to  come  on 
his  bended  knees,  and  ask  me  himself  to  stay !  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  observed  Edmund.  "  I  don't 
understand  it.  I  came  to  "  —  He  paused  here,  and 
looked  round  the  comfortable  room,  where  there  was 
no  sign  of  neglect  or  downfall.  It  was  quite  true  that 
Mrs.  Ford  was  the  sort  of  woman  to  keep  her  house 
tidy,  whatever  happened,  but  he  could  not  associate 
the  trim  room  with  any  misfortune.  "  I  have  not  seen 
you,"  he  said,  "  since  before  —  the  great  trouble  we 


THE  WEST  LODGE.  413 

have  had."  He  felt  that  it  would  be  easier  to  inquire 
into  her  circumstances  after  he  had  made  some  allu- 
sion to  his  own. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Ford  stopped  her  angry  sobs. 
"  Oh,  sir,"  she  cried,  "  we  was  very  sorry !  Nobody 
would  ever  have  spoken  to  me  like  that  if  Mr.  Roger 
had  a'  been  to  the  fore !  Oh,  I  don't  hold  with  new 
masters  that  can  speak  like  that  to  a  woman,  and  her 
husband's  back  turned.  And  us  that  did  n't  mean  to 
stay,  —  us  as  was  going  to  give  warning  from  one  day 
to  another!  But  without  he  has  his  just  warning, 
Ford  '11  never  go.  He  's  a  man  as  stands  upon  his 
rights ! " 

"  When  I  was  last  here,"  said  Edmund,  "  you  were 
in  great  trouble." 

Mrs.  Ford  took  scarcely  a  moment  to  recover  her- 
self. She  put  down  her  apron  from  her  eyes,  which 
were  still  wet,  but  immediately  became  watchful  and 
full  of  strange  defiance  and  light.  "  Was  we,  sir?  " 
she  asked,  with  an  appearance  of  surprise  and  a  sud- 
den smile,  as  if  the  affair  had  been  so  trifling  as  to 
escape  her  memory. 

"  You  were  in  great  trouble,"  repeated  Edmund, 
with  some  impatience.  "  You  were  almost  in  despair. 
Lily  had  left  home,  and  you  did  n't  know  where  she 
was.  You  thought  it  might  have  been  my  brother 
Roger  "  —  Edmund  spoke  the  words  with  an  effort  — 
"  who  had  taken  her  away." 

"  Lord  bless  us  !  "  said  the  woman,  "  what  things  do 
get  into  folks'  heads  !  I  remember  now.  I  was  just 
like  a  mad  woman.  Ford,  he  never  gave  in  to  it  "  — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Ford  was  as  bad,  or  worse, 
than  you.  He  said  he  would  kill  the  man  who  " — 

"  So  he  did,  - —  so  he  did  !     Them  things  go  out  of 


414  THE   SECOND  SON. 

your  mind  when  you  find  out  as  it  was  all  silly  fancies 
and  not  true.  Dear,  bless  us  all !  so  we  did ;  ravin' 
like  mad  folks,  as  if  our  Lily —  Mr.  Edmund,  I 
don't  blame  you  :  you  think  as  poor  folks  has  no  feel- 
ings ;  but  I  would  n't  have  put  you  in  mind  of  the  like 
of  that,  if  I  had  been  you  !  " 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  injured  feeling,  yet  of  mag- 
nanimous forgiveness,  and  laughed  a  little,  with  her 
apron  still  held  in  her  hand. 

"  It  was  thoughtless  of  the  child,"  she  continued, 
looking  down  upon  the  apron,  which  she  twisted  in  her 
fingers.  "  I  don't  say  nothing  else.  But  one  as  never 
thought  a  wrong  thought,  nor  knew  what  wickedness 
was,  how  was  she  to  suppose  as  we  'd  take  such  fancies 
into  our  heads  ?  I  was  that  ashamed  I  could  n't  look 
her  in  the  face,  —  to  think  as  I  had  ever  mistrusted 
my  Lily !  But,  thank  God  !  she  don't  know,  not  to 
this  day  ;  and  them  as  would  tell  her  would  be  cruel, 
—  oh,  it  would  be  cruel !  I  would  sooner  die  nor  do 
it,  though  I  'm  nothing  but  a  poor  woman,  and  no 
scholard  nor  a  gentleman,  like  you !  " 

"  You  may  be  sure,"  replied  Edmund,  "  that  Lily 
shall  never  hear  anything  of  the  sort  from  me.  I  am 
very  glad  your  fears  have  turned  out  to  be  vain.  Is 
she  here  now  ?  " 

"She's  far  better  off,"  answered  Mrs.  Ford. 
"  She 's  with  friends  that  think  a  deal  of  her,  —  oh,  a 
great  deal  of  her !  She  's  kept  like  a  lady,  and  never 
puts  her  hand  to  a  thing  but  what  she  pleases,  and 
books  to  read  and  a  pianny  to  play  upon,  and  every- 
thing she  can  set  her  face  to.  Oh,  she  's  better  off 
than  she  could  be  with  Ford  and  me." 

"  Is  this  the  account  she  gives  you?  Are  you  quite 
sure  it  is  true  ?  Don't  you  know  where  she  is  ?  "  Ed- 


THE  WEST  LODGE.  415 

mund  asked,  with  again  a  sickening  thrill  of  horror. 
"  Do  you  take  all  this  merely  upon  her  word  ?  " 

"  I  'd  take  the  Bank  of  England  upon  her  word  !  " 
cried  the  mother,  with  a  confusion  of  ideas  not  diffi- 
cult to  understand.  "  Me  and  the  lady  —  the  lady 
that  makes  Lily  so  happy  —  more  happy,  —  and  I  do 
grudge  a  bit  to  know  it,  I  '11  not  deny  my  mean  ways 

—  more  happy  than  she  was  with  me." 

"  Mrs.  Ford,"  said  Edmund,  "  are  you  sure  you  are 
not  being  once  more  deceived  ?  "  He  was  very  much 
in  earnest  and  very  serious  ;  confused  more  than  it  is 
possible  to  say  by  the  mother's  evident  ignorance,  by 
Stephen's  strange  appearance  here,  which  was  scarcely 
credible  if  Lily  was  still  in  his  power,  and  by  all  the 
bewildering  circumstances  which  seemed  to  contradict 
each  other.  Mrs.  Ford,  on  her  side,  flung  her  apron 
from  her,  and  confronted  him  with  a  glowing  coun- 
tenance and  eyes  aflame. 

"  I  was  never  deceived  !  "  she  cried.  "  Me,  de- 
ceived !  Oh,  if  I  was  weak  for  a  moment,  and  came 
and  cried  out  to  you  in  my  trouble,  it  was  because  I 
was  a  silly  woman  and  did  n't  know  no  better.  De- 
ceived !  I  could  tell  you  a  name  as  would  bring  you 
down  on  your  knees,  Mr.  Edmund,  to  ask  her  pardon, 

—  yes,    on    your   knees,    that 's   the    word  !      Lily  's 
where  she  has  a  right  to  be,  and  that 's  among  ladies, 
like  what  she  is  herself ;  ladies  as  is  her  friends  and 
our  friends   too,"  cried   Mrs.    Ford,   "  mine  and  my 
'usband's,  all  for  the  sake  of  Lily,  and  has  offered  us 
a  home,  and  a  better  home  nor  here.     And  Ford,  he 
was  to  have  given  the  master  warning  this  very  day, 
if  it  had  n't  been  as  my  heart  just  clung  a  bit  to  the 
flowers.     But  without  his  warning  he  '11  not  budge  a 
step,  — no,  not  for  all  the  police  in  the  world,  neither 


416  THE   SECOND  SON. 

him  nor  me  ;  and  you  may  tell  the  master  that,  Mr. 
Edmund  !  We  've  served  him  honest  and  true  for 
more  than  twenty  year :  is  that  a  reason  to  turn  us 
out  like  thieves  at  a  day's  notice  ?  But  we  11  not  go 
without  our  just  warning,  —  no,  not  a  step,  neither 
Ford  nor  me." 

Mrs.  Ford  made  this  long  speech  with  a  fervor  and 
passion  which  had  its  natural  result,  and  plunged  her 
at  the  end  into  a  fit  of  indignant  tears. 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  returned  Edmund.  "  I 
am  sure  my  father  never  meant  this.  There  must  be 
some  mistake.  And  Stephen  —  what  Stephen  could 
mean  —  I  am  bewildered  altogether.  I  don't  under- 
stand your  story,  and  I  don't  understand  his  action  ; 
but  I  promise  you  you  shall  not  be  turned  out  if  I 
can  help  it ;  certainly  you  shall  not  be  turned  out." 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  can  tell  you  what  he  means :  he  's  got 
somebody  of  his  own  as  he  wants  to  put  in,  and  it 's 
well  known  that  there 's  little  mercy  for  them  as  comes 
in  Mr.  Stephen's  way.  I  wouldn't  be  in  Mr.  Ste- 
phen's power,  not  for  anything  that  could  be  given 
me  ;  and  that 's  why  I  could  bite  my  tongue  out  that 
I  would  n't  let  Ford  give  warning.  Oh,  it 's  easy  to 
understand  Mr.  Stephen  ;  he  don't  let  no  one  stand  in 
his  way." 

"  You  are  doing  my  brother  injustice,"  Edmund 
said ;  but  he  had  little  spirit  in  Stephen's  cause,  and 
he  was  too  much  bewildered  to  be  able  to  see  light  one 
way  or  another.  That  Stephen  should  thus  venture 
to  insult  the  people  he  had  so  deeply  injured  seemed 
beyond  belief,  and  so  was  the  whole  confused  mystery 
of  Lily,  —  the  ladies  wi4i  whom  she  was  supposed  to 
be,  the  friends,  though  the  unhappy  mother  had  de- 
clared at  the  first  stroke  of  the  calamity  that  she  had 


THE  WEST  LODGE.  417 

no  friends.  Edmund  did  not  know  what  to  think  or 
say.  He  went  back  across  the  park  completely  per- 
plexed, feeling  that  he  had  lost  every  landmark,  and 
all  was  chaos  and  confusion  around  him.  Was  it, 
after  all,  the  common  tale  of  betrayal  and  ruin  ? 
Was  it  something  entirely  different  ?  Was  Stephen 
the  cold-blooded  destroyer,  who,  after  he  had  ruined 
the  daughter,  could  attempt  to  conceal  his  crime  by 
driving  away  the  helpless  poor  people  from  their 
home  ?  He  could  not  tell  what  to  think.  Was  there 
perhaps  some  unsuspected  third  party,  who  was  the 
criminal  or  who  was  the  saviour?  Edmund  felt  that 
he  could  make  nothing  of  it,  one  way  or  another.  As 
for  the  hope  which  he  had  entertained  of  injuring 
Stephen  in  the  eyes  of  Elizabeth  by  means  of  Lily's 
wretched  story,  —  for  that  was  how  his  project  now 
appeared  to  him,  —  he  felt  ashamed  to  the  bottom 
of  his  heart  of  this  unworthy  purpose.  Stephen  was 
without  mercy,  without  kindness,  bent  on  his  own 
ends,  and  tolerating  no  interference  ;  but  in  this  mat- 
ter, perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  innocent.  He  could  not 
have  tried  to  crush  Lily's  parents  if  Lily  had  owed 
her  destruction  to  him :  a  man  may  be  bad,  but  not 
so  bad  as  that  !  Compunction  came  into  Edmund's 
soul :  to  do  injustice  to  any  man  was  terrible  to  him. 

A  brief  conversation  which  he  had  with  Stephen 
before  dinner  did  not,  however,  mend  matters.  Ste- 
phen took  the  first  word.  He  asked  what  the  devil 
Edmund  meant  by  interfering  with  what  was  no  busi- 
ness of  his. 

"  As  much  of  mine  as  yours,"  retorted  Edmund  ; 
"  more,  perhaps,  since  I  know  the  people  better.  You 
could  not  really  think  of  taking  it  upon  yourself  to 
turn  one  of  my  father's  old  servants  away  ?  " 


418  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  Old  servants  be !  "  exclaimed  Stephen.  "  A 

pair  of  detestable  old  hypocrites !  What  use  is  an 
old  fellow  like  that  in  the  covers  ?  I  '11  have  all  those 
vermin  of  old  servants  cleared  away." 

"  Fortunately  you  are  not  the  master,  Steve.  No, 
neither  am  I ;  I  pretend  to  no  authority." 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  rejoined  Stephen,  with  an 
insolent  laugh;  "you're  out  of  it,  at  least.  And  I 
can  tell  you  I  '11  stand  no  nonsense,  Ned,  —  no  protect- 
ing of  a  set  of  rogues  and  toadies.  They  think  they 
can  defy  me,  and  that  Mr.  Edmund  will  see  them 
righted,  as  they  call  it.  I  '11  have  none  of  that.  The 
estate  is  to  be  mine,  and  I  mean  to  manage  it  my  own 
way." 

"  The  estate  is  not  yours  while  it  is  my  father's, 
Stephen ;  and  I  shall  certainly  appeal  to  him  not  to 
suffer  the  Fords  to  be  turned  out  in  this  summary 
way.  They  are  old  retainers,  —  they  were  favorites 
of  my  mother." 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure ;  and  the  pretty  daughter  ! 
There  was  perhaps  more  than  one  of  us  hit  in  that 
quarter,"  cried  Stephen,  with  a  rude  laugh.  "  That 
explains  everything.  It  is  a  cr,ime  to  meddle  with  her 
father,  eh  ?  " 

He  stood  with  insolent  eyes  fixed  upon  Edmund's, 
a  flush  on  his  face,  defiance  in  his  look.  Edmund  did 
not  know  the  keen  pang  of  mortification  in  Stephen's 
mind  which  made  him  seize  this  opportunity  of  mis- 
chief, and  there  was  something  exasperating  in  the 
look  which  tried  his  patience  almost  beyond  endur- 
ance. It  was  the  second  time  in  which  all  his  self- 
control  had  been  necessary  not  to  strike  his  brother  to 
the  ground.  They  stood  straight  up  in  front  of  each 
other  for  a  moment,  looking  into  each  other's  faces 


THE  WEST  LODGE.  419 

like  deadly  foes,  not  like  brothers.  Then  Edmund 
turned  slowly  away. 

"We  cannot  fight,"  he  said,  "because  we  are  both 
Mitf ords,  and  I  will  not  dishonor  my  father's  house  by 
a  scuffle  ;  but  you  know  what  I  think  better  than  if  I 
said  it,  either  by  words  or  blows." 

"  That  for  your  blows  1 "  cried  Stephen,  snapping 
his  fingers  ;  but  he  turned  away  more  quickly  than  his 
brother.  Even  he  could  not  but  feel  that  there  had 
already  been  enough  of  that. 


XXXIX. 

THE   SQUIRE   IN   THE   WRONG. 

THEY  both  watched  their  father  during  the  hour  of 
dinner,  which  passed  as  usual,  in  a  suppressed  antag- 
onism and  careful  avoidance  of  dangerous  subjects. 
But  neither  Edmund  nor  Stephen  had  the  advantage 
for  that  night.  Mr.  Mitford  fretfully  declined  to  listen 
to  what  either  had  to  say.  He  had  no  mind  for  a  dis- 
cussion with  the  son  who  was  now  his  eldest  son,  and 
to  whom  he  was  doing  wrong.  His  conscience  was 
not  very  tender,  but  it  was  vulnerable  in  this  respect. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  wronging  Ed- 
mund. Edmund,  perhaps,  had  not  been  too  complai- 
sant. He  had  stood  by  Roger,  and  deserted  his  father ; 
but  Roger  was  dead,  poor  fellow,  and  except  in  that 
point  the  Squire  was  aware  that  Edmund  had  given 
him  no  just  cause  of  offense  ;  and  yet  he  was  cast  out 
of  his  natural  place  and  disinherited  for  no  reason. 
Mr.  Mitford  could  not  bear  to  think  of  it ;  and  to  allow 
himself  to  be  let  in,  as  he  said,  for  a  discussion  with 
that  fellow  at  night,  when  there  could  be  no  chance  of 
deliverance,  when  he  probably  would  bring  up  every- 
thing and  go  over  the  whole  ground  —  No,  no ;  the 
Squire  took  refuge  in  the  first  excuse  which  occurred 
to  him,  and  that  was  a  headache.  "  I  don't  feel  at  all 
the  thing,"  he  remarked.  "  I  've  got  a  very  queer 
feeling  here,"  tapping  his  forehead  as  he  spoke.  "  It 's 
worry  and  the  hot  weather,  and  things  in  general. 


THE   SQUIRE   IN   THE  WROXG.  421 

Robson  is  very  decided  on  the  subject.  I  am  never  to 
bother  about  business,  he  tells  me,  when  I  feel  like 
this.  I  suppose  it  will  do  to-morrow  ?  " 

"It  will  do  to-morrow,  certainly,"  assented  Ed- 
mund, looking  at  Stephen,  "  so  long  as  I  am  assured 
that  no  further  steps  will  be  taken." 

"  Steps  taken  !  I  should  like  to  see  any  man  tak- 
ing steps  on  my  property  without  my  knowledge,"  the 
Squire  said,  still  more  fretfully.  The  secret  trouble 
in  his  conscience  was  telling  upon  him  more  than  the 
hot  weather.  The  power  to  do  as  he  liked  with  his  own 
was  very  dear  to  him,  but  he  could  not  obliterate  the 
sense  of  justice  which  was  in  his  imperious  and  selfish, 
yet  not  altogether  undisciplined  nature.  There  were 
things  which  he  could  not  do  with  any  ease  of  mind, 
and  Edmund's  disinheritance  hurt  him,  even  though 
he  was  not  brave  enough  to  undo  it.  The  safest 
thing  for  him,  with  that  queer  feeling  in  his  head 
against  which  the  doctor  had  warned  him,  was  to  cast 
that  thought  behind  him,  though  it  was  not  very  easy 
to  do,  and  above  all  to  avoid  agitating  conferences 
with  his  son  whom  he  had  wronged,  at  the  dead  of 
night,  so  to  speak. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go  to  bed  early,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  I  'm  not  up  to  any  more  worry  to-night.  To-mor- 
row you  can  say  what  you  like,  Ned:  it's  fresher  and 
cooler  in  the  morning.  I  '11  hear  then  all  you  've  got 
to  say." 

"  It  is  not  very  much  I  have  got  to  say  :  a  few  min- 
utes would  do  it." 

"  I  tell  you,"  cried  the  Squire  angrily,  "  I  can't 
bear  any  worry  to-night ! " 

"  Don't  disturb  yourself,  sir.  I  '11  see  to  every- 
thing —  you  may  leave  it  to  me,"  said  Stephen. 


422  THE   SECOND   SON. 

"  You  ought  to  be  saved  all  worry,  at  your  time  of 
life." 

Mr.  Mitford  turned  furiously  upon  his  younger  son, 
though  his  head,  with  that  leap  of  the  angry  blood  to 
his  temples,  felt  more  queer  than  ever.  "  What  do 
you  know  about  my  time  of  life  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  '11 
trouble  you  to  let  me  and  my  affairs  alone.  I  '11  have 
no  man  meddle  in  my  affairs.  You  think  I  am  in  my 
dotage,  I  suppose ;  but  you  shall  find  out  the  differ- 
ence." He  could  not  refrain  from  a  threat,  though  it 
was  vague  ;  not  like  the  threats  which  had  failed  to 
subdue  Roger,  for  the  shame  of  changing  his  mind  a 
second  time  was  strong  upon  the  Squire.  He  could 
not,  he  felt,  do  that  sort  of  thing  a  second  time. 

But  when  he  had  retired  to  his  library,  and  closed 
the  door,  though  he  could  shut  out  both  the  son  he 
had  wronged  and  the  son  he  had  promoted,  he  could 
not  shut  out  the  troublesome  thoughts  that  tormented 
him,  nor  return  to  the  easy  mind  which  used  to  be 
his.  That  shadow  of  Roger,  dead,  stood  by  him  as  it 
stood  by  Stephen,  as  it  stood  between  Edmund  and 
Elizabeth.  The  birthright  with  which,  in  his  passion 
and  self-will,  he  had  interfered  would  not  allow  itself 
to  be  forgotten.  His  head  continued  to  throb,  the 
pulse  kept  on  beating  in  his  temples.  Finally  that 
commotion  in  his  head,  which  he  could  not  get  the 
better  of,  drove  him  to  bed,  which  was  the  best  place 
for  him,  and  where  he  slept  heavily  but  soundly,  far 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  interrupting  and  disturbing 
elements  round  him.  Nothing  as  yet  had  occurred 
in  his  life  which  had  proved  capable  of  keeping  the 
Squire  from  his  sleep. 

Edmund  was  admitted  to  an  audience  next  day, 
when  Mr.  Mitford  was  quite  himself  again.  To  see 


THE  SQUIRE  IN   THE  WRONG.  423 

him  seated  there,  clean-shaved,  faultlessly  arrayed  in 
his  light  shooting  suit,  with  a  rosebud  in  his  button- 
hole, and  his  complexion  almost  as  clear  as  the  flower, 
no  one  could  have  believed  in  the  head  that  felt 
queer,  the  temples  that  beat,  the  blood  which  ran  in 
so  strong  a  tide.  He  looked  perfectly  cool  and  calm, 
as  he  sat  behind  his  writing-table,  in  all  that  fresh 
array  of  good  health  and  good  manners,  —  but  not, 
perhaps,  perfectly  good  manners  ;  for  he  was  angry 
with  Edmund  still,  because  he  felt  that  he  had 
wronged  him. 

"  Well,"  he  observed,  half  roughly,  "what  is  it  you 
have  got  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  feel  as  if  we  were  boys  again,  and  I  was  the 
sneak  who  was  coming  to  tell.  Have  you  heard  any- 
thing about  it,  sir,  from  Stephen  ?  " 

"  Stephen  takes  too  much  upon  him,"  answered  the 
Squire.  "  Whatever  may  happen  in  the  end,  by 
George  !  I  'm  master  of  my  own  concerns  in  the  mean 
time,  and  neither  Stephen  nor  any  one  else  shall  in- 
terfere." 

"  I  will  make  no  complaint  of  Stephen.  What  I 
want  is  that  you  should  protect  some  poor  people,  who 
perhaps  don't  deserve  very  much  at  our  hands,  but  it 
is  not  any  fault  of  theirs.  It  seems  strange  I  should 
come  to  you  about  them.  I  want  to  speak  about  the 
Fords." 

"  The  Fords !  "  The  Squire  muttered  something 
under  his  breath,  which  might  be  forgiven  him,  though 
it  was  not  a  blessing.  "  What,  that  girl  again  !  "  he 
said,  with  something  hoarse  and  husky  in  his  voice. 
"  Don't  tell  me  that  it 's  you  this  time,  Ned.  Is  she 
a  witch,  or  what  is  she,  that  her  name  should  come  up 
between  us  again  ?  " 


424  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  It  is  nothing  about  her,"  Edmund  cried,  with  a 
sense  of  profounder  sympathy  with  his  father  than  he 
had  yet  felt. 

But  before  he  could  enter  into  further  explanations 
he  was  interrupted  by  Larkins,  who  came  in  solemnly 
with  a  card.  "  The  gentleman  would  like  to  see  you, 
sir,  on  business,"  he  said. 

"  Gavelkind !  Who  's  Gavelkind  ?  I  've  heard  the 
name  before.  What 's  his  business,  —  did  he  tell  you 
what  was  his  business  ?  I  can't  let  every  stranger  in 
that  comes  to  me  on  business.  It  might  be  an  old- 
clothes  man,  for  anything  one  can  tell,  though  I  think 
I  know  the  name  ;  it 's  a  queer  name." 

"  I  know  both  the  name  and  the  man,  sir  ;  you  have 
met  him  at  Mount  Travers.  He  is  the  man  who  man- 
ages all  their  business  affairs." 

"  Oh,  at  Mount  Travers  !  Show  him  in,  Larkins." 
The  Squire  looked  up  with  a  half -humorous,  puzzled 
look.  He  was  not  humorous  by  nature,  but  the  oc- 
casion moved  him.  "  It  can't  be  her  —  herself  — 
sending  to  propose  —  for  Stephen  ?  "  Mr.  Mitford 
said. 

"  For  Stephen  I  "  Edmund  did  not  see  any  humor 
in  the  suggestion.  He  did  not  laugh,  as  his  father 
did ;  a  deep  red  mounted  to  his  face.  "  Why  for  Ste- 
phen?" He  forgot  the  absurdity  of  the  idea  alto- 
gether in  the  keen  pang  of  thus  being  left  out  of  all 
calculation.  His  mind  had  not  dwelt  upon  the  loss  of 
what  was  now  his  birthright,  but  to  be  thus  put  out 
of  the  question  was  a  cutting  and  insulting  injury. 
He  awaited  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Gavelkiud  with  min- 
gled anxiety  and  offense ;  of  course  what  the  Squire 
said  was  altogether  ridiculous  in  every  way,  but  yet  — • 
He  recovered  his  common  sense,  happily,  and  his 


THE  SQUIRE  IN  THE   WRONG.  425 

usual  color  before  Mr.  Gavelkind  came  in,  with  his 
absent  look,  yet  keen,  penetrating  eyes,  his  head  pro- 
jecting in  a  forward  stoop  from  his  thin  shoulders^  a 
very  large  hat  in  his  hands. 

"  I  have  come  from  Miss  Travers,"  he  said,  when 
he  had  seated  himself.  He  had  given  one  of  his  quick 
looks,  as  he  came  in,  at  Mitford  and  his  son,  but  he 
did  not  look  at  the  Squire  as  he  spoke.  He  raised 
one  leg  across  the  knee  of  the  other  and  caressed  it, 
slowly  smoothing  the  cloth  of  his  trousers  as  if  it  had 
been  a  child.  "  I've  come  to  make  some  inquiries." 

Whether  he  paused  to  tantalize  their  curiosity,  or 
to  make  a  little  mystery,  or  to  get  his  breath,  or  for 
nothing  at  all,  it  would  be  hard  to  say  ;  probably  the 
last  was  the  true  explanation.  He  attached  no  im- 
portance to  what  he  had  to  say,  and  did  not  imagine 
that  it  would  excite  any  special  interest ;  but  half  be- 
cause of  the  Squire's  jest,  half  from  the  general  ex- 
citement which  was  in  the  air,  both  father  and  son 
listened  as  if  some  special  intimation  were  about  to 
be  made. 

"Yes?"  remarked  Mr.  Mitford.  "I'll  be  happy 
to  answer  any  of  Miss  Travers's  inquiries.  I  only 
wish  she  had  come  to  put  them  herself." 

"  I  suppose  that 's  impossible,  in  the  circumstances," 
returned  the  lawyer.  "  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  why. 
Ladies  go  to  many  places  a  great  deal  less  suitable 
than  the  house  of  a  man  that  might  be  their  father ; 
but  that 's  neither  here  nor  there." 

"  And  of  one  who  would  have  no  objection  to  be  her 
father,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  laugh.  "  You  can  tell 
her  I  said  so  ;  she  has  always  been  a  great  favorite  of 
mine." 

"  There  are  many  people  with  whom  she  is  a  favor- 


426  THE  SECOND  SON. 

ite,  especially  now  when  she  has  all  her  uncle's 
money.  Perhaps  you,  like  me,  Mr.  Mitford,  liked  her 
before  ;  but,  as  I  was  saying,  that's  not  the  question. 
It  appears  there's  a  man  in  your  service  whom  she 
wishes  to  take  into  hers." 

"  Several,  I  should  n't  wonder,"  said  the  Squire, 
"  and  there  is  one  I  can  recommend.  To  tell  the 
truth,  we  were  planning  to  go  over  to  Mount  Travers 
for  the  purpose."  And  at  this  intended  witticism  he 
laughed  loudly,  which  was  not,  to  do  him  justice,  Mr. 
Mitford's  way.  But  perhaps  to  have  been  seized  with 
a  humorous  idea  had  demoralized  him.  He  was  proud 
of  the  unusual  good  thing,  and  wanted  to  keep  up  the 
joke. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Gavelkind,  looking  vaguely  round 
with  eyes  that  made  a  slight  pause  upon  Edmund. 
The  Squire  felt  that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
naturally  hastened  to  make  it  worse. 

"  No,  not  that  fellow,"  he  cried  ;  "  he  has  n't  spirit 
enough  to  teach  a  pretty  girl  to  know  her  own  mind." 

It  was  all  so  entirely  out  of  character,  so  unbecom- 
ing, almost  indecent,  such  a  wild  and  causeless  be- 
trayal of  his  plans  to  a  man  who  as  likely  as  not  might 
be  his  adversary,  that  the  Squire  lost  his  head  alto- 
gether; and  the  fact  that  he  was  more  than  half  con- 
scious of  his  folly  only  made  it  the  greater.  "  I  've 
got  a  soldier  boy,"  he  added. 

Edmund  got  up,  and  walked  hastily  away.  It  is 
difficult  to  sit  still  and  hear  one's  own  people  commit 
themselves,  even  when  one  is  not  much  in  sympathy 
with  them.  But  after  the  momentary  impulse  of  vex- 
ation, he  came  as  hastily  back,  conscious,  as  it  fol- 
lowed him,  though  he  could  not  see  it,  of  the  sober 
lawyer's  wondering,  inquiring  glance.  "  Mr.  Gavel- 


THE  SQUIRE  IN  THE  WRONG.  427 

kind  can  scarcely  have  come  to  make  inquiries  con- 
cerning your  sons,  sir,"  he  remarked. 

"  No,"  said  the  lawyer,  still  smoothing  assiduously 
the  cloth  of  his  trousers,  "  it  was  not  that.  Ladies 
don't  make  the  inquiries  they  ought  in  that  sort  of 
way.  It 's  about  a  man  of  quite  a  different  sort,  — 
far  less  important,  no  doubt.  He's  been  game- 
keeper at  Melcombe,  I  hear,  for  a  number  of  years, 
and  now  I  'm  told  he  's  going  to  be  turned  off  summa- 
rily. Miss  Travers  would  take  him  into  her  service, 
knowing  something  of  his  family  ;  but  she  would  like 
to  know  first  if  there  is  anything  really  against  him. 
Dismissal  at  a  moment's  notice,  after  a  service  of 
years,  looks  bad.  It  seemed  to  me  that,  before  allow- 
ing her  to  decide,  I  had  better  inquire." 

Mr.  Mitford  looked  from  Edmund  to  the  speaker, 
and  back  again.  He  had  been  checked,  and  almost 
snubbed,  and  was  aware  that  he  deserved  it.  The 
consciousness  made  him  somewhat  angry  and  more 
than  ever  severe.  "  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  sharply. 

"  It 's  a  man  of  the  name  of  Ford.  I  suppose  I 
must  allow  that  there  's  been  some  kind  of  negotiation 
going  on  before  this.  For  some  reason  or  other,  —  I 
suppose  because  she  thought  him  a  trustworthy  man, 
—  Miss  Travers  had  offered  him  "  — 

"  Ford ! "  said  the  Squire,  interrupting  almost 
rudely.  "  Why,  that 's  the  second  time  I  Ve  heard  of 
Ford  this  morning,  and  it  was  you,  Ned  "  — 

"  I  came  to  tell  you,  sir,  just  what  Mr.  Gavelkind 
has  told  you :  that  by  some  mistake,  which  I  don't  un- 
derstand, Ford  had  been  told  that  he  must  leave  at 
once.  There  could  be  no  reason  for  it,  —  it  could  be 
nothing  but  a  mistake." 

"  Ford  !  "  the  Squire  repeated.      "  Why,  he 's  the 


428  THE  SECOND  SON. 

—  hum  —  ha  —  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean. 
Ford !  I  've  not  said  anything  about  Ford.  I  had  for- 
gotten the  fellow's  very  existence,  with  all  I  've  had  to 
think  of." 

"  I  knew  that  must  be  the  case,"  said  Edmund, 
eagerly.  "  You  see  my  father  had  no  such  intention. 
It  was  a  mistake." 

"  The  mistake  must  have  gone  pretty  far,"  said  Mr. 
Gavelkind,  "for  it  appears  the  man  came  over  this 
morning  to  say  that  he  was  threatened  with  the  police 
if  he  did  not  turn  out  to-day." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  by  whom ! "  cried  the 
Squire.  "Ford!  Well,  yes,  I  wasn't  over-pleased 
with  him  once.  I  meant  to  get  rid  of  them,  Ned,  you 
know.  I  don't  take  it  kindly  of  Miss  Travers  that  she 
should  parley  with  my  servants,  Mr.  Gavelkind,  and 
the  fellow  had  better  go ;  but  I  never  said  a  word 
about  him,  and  I  should  like  to  know  who 's  taken 
upon  himself  to  interfere.  It 's  a  confounded  piece  of 
impertinence,  whoever  has  done  it." 

"  I  may  conclude,  then,  that  there 's  nothing  against 
the  man,"  said  Mr.  Gavelkind,  with  his  mild  voice. 
"  There 's  some  private  reason  which  makes  Miss 
Travers  take  an  interest  in  him.  Ladies  are  governed 
greatly  by  private  reasons,  which  they  don't  always 
confide  to  their  man  of  business.  Nothing  against 
him,  Mr.  Mitford  ?  Trustworthy,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it ;  so  that  if  he  does  leave  your  service  after  all  "  — 

"He's  free  to  leave  my  service  as  soon  as  he 
likes ! "  cried  the  Squire.  "  I  had  very  nearly  sent 
him  off,  —  how  long  is  it  since,  Ned  ?  I  'd  rather 
never  hear  the  fellow's  name  again.  But  I  don't  think 
Miss  Travers  should  meddle  with  another  man's  ser- 
vants," he  said,  calming  himself  down,  with  his  usual 


THE  SQUIRE  IN   THE  WRONG.  429 

prudential  afterthought.  "  I  've  the  highest  opinion 
of  the  lady,  —  the  very  highest  opinion ;  but  between 
gentlemen,  Mr.  Gavelkind  —  Ah,  I  forgot :  it 's  not 
between  gentlemen ;  it 's  "  — 

"  Between  a  lady  and  a  man  it 's  not  such  plain  sail- 
ing," remarked  the  lawyer.  "  Some  stand  out,  all  the 
same,  and  for  my  part  I  think  none  the  worse  of 
them  :  but  a  great  many  give  in  ;  and  when  you  're 
not  married  to  them,  nor  bound  to  them,"  Mr.  Gavel- 
kind  added,  reflectively,  "  perhaps  it  is  the  best  way." 

"  She  's  got  no  preserves  that  I  know  of,  and  not 
much  forest  land  nor  wood  of  any  kind  to  speak  of : 
what  does  she  want  with  Ford  ?  On  second  thoughts," 
said  the  Squire,  with  a  vague  notion  that  Ford  had 
something  to  tell  which  might  be  supposed  to  be  to  the 
discredit  of  the  family,  "  I  think  I  'd  rather  keep  the 
man.  He  knows  every  inch  of  my  covers,  and  he  's 
useful  in  his  way." 

"  But  since  he  's  ordered  off,  on  the  risk  of  being 
turned  out  by  the  police  if  he  does  n't  go  to-day  " — 

This  brought  the  purple  flush  again  to  Mr.  Mit- 
ford's  brow.  "  I  've  got  to  find  out  who  's  done  that !  " 
he  cried.  "  Who  's  done  it,  Ned  ?  It 's  confounded 
impertinence,  whoever  it  is.  By  George  !  if  I  find  the 
man  who  has  taken  it  upon  himself  to  interfere  "  — 

"  I  think  I  've  accomplished  my  business,"  said  Mr. 
Gavelkind.  "  I  must  n't  stop  you  from  proceeding 
with  yours.  The  man  's  honest,  I  may  say,  if  it  should 
come  to  anything  with  Miss  Travers?  Present  em- 
ployer wishing  to  retain  him  always  the  best  testi- 
monial. No,  she  does  n't  do  anything  in  the  way  of 
game,  and  what  she  wants  with  a  keeper  is  more  than 
I  can  say.  But  ladies  go  upon  private  reasons,  and 
nothing  more  was  confided  to  me.  I  wish  you  good- 


430  THE   SECOND  SON. 

morning,  Mr.  Mitford."  The  old  lawyer  gave  Ed- 
mund a  look  which  indicated  his  desire  for  further 
talk.  "  I  wish  you  'd  come  and  see  them,"  he  said,  in 
a  low  tone,  as  Edmund  accompanied  him  to  the  door. 
"  There 's  something  going  on  I  don't  understand. 
There  's  some  mystery  among  the  ladies,  I  don't  know 
what  it  is.  I  wish  you  'd  come  and  see." 

"  I  fear  I  have  no  eye  for  mysteries  ;  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  they  care  to  see  me ;  why  should  they  ?  I 
am  not  a  very  cheerful  guest." 

"  Of  course  they  care  to  see  you,"  said  the  old  law- 
yer. "  Don't  lose  your  chance  for  nonsense,  if  you  '11 
allow  me  to  say  so.  And  you  know  a  little  about  hu- 
man nature,  so  you  must  have  an  eye  for  mysteries. 
Come  and  see  them ;  and  come  while  I  'm  still  there." 


XL. 

AN  ALTERCATION. 

"EDMUND!" 

Before  Edmund  could  get  his  hand  free  from  the 
lingering  clasp  of  Mr.  Gavelkind,  his  father's  voice  was 
loudly  audible,  calling  him,  which  was  a  very  unusual 
thing  to  hear  in  Melcombe.  The  call  was  repeated  with 
some  vehemence  before  he  could  obey.  He  was  absent 
scarcely  five  minutes,  but  the  Squire  regarded  even 
that  little  interval  with  suspicion ;  and  in  the  mean 
time  the  scene  had  changed.  Stephen  had  come  in 
when  the  visitor  withdrew,  and  had,  it  was  evident,  been 
hotly  received ;  for  though  he  had  thrown  himself  into 
a  chair  with  an  appearance  of  indifference,  his  attempt 
at  ease  was  belied  by  the  heated  color  on  his  cheeks. 
Mr.  Mitford  was  fulminating  across  his  writing-table. 
He  turned  his  wrath  upon  the  new-comer  without  a 
pause. 

"What  did  you  want  of  that  old  rogue,  Ned? 
They  're  all  rogues,  the  lot  of  them,  and  up  to  some- 
thing or  other  now,  —  that 's  clear,  —  trying  to  embroil 
me  with  Lizzy  Travers.  And  you  go  over  to  the  other 
side  of  course,  and  desert  mine !  Come  in,  and  shut 
the  door.  Now  you  're  both  here,  perhaps  I  may  get 
to  understand.  Who  is  it  that  takes  upon  himself  to 
interfere  in  the  management  of  my  affairs  ?  No  one 
has  ever  done  it  till  now,  and  by  George  !  I  '11  not  have 
it !  I  '11  not  have  it !  Not  if  you  were  twice  the  men 
you  are,  both  Stephen  and  you  ! " 


432  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  in  such  a  rage  about," 
remarked  Stephen.  "  It  is  not  much  more  than  a  week 
since  you  ordered  me  to  send  in  my  papers,  that  I 
might  be  free  to  take  the  trouble  off  your  hands." 

"  I  said  nothing  of  the  sort,  sir.  I  never  said  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  I  could  not  have  said  it,  for  I  cer- 
tainly never  meant  it ! "  cried  the  Squire. 

"  If  you  please  to  say  so,"  returned  Stephen,  with 
cool  impertinence ;  "  there  was  no  witness  present,  to 
be  sure.  It  must  go  either  by  }Tour  word  or  mine.  It 's 
a  conflict  of  testimony  that 's  all." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  I  am  telling  a  lie,  sir  ? "  the 
Squire  demanded,  furiously. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all ;  it  is  not  I  who  make  such  accusa- 
tions. I  only  say  that  it  is  clear  one  of  us  has  made  a 
great  mistake." 

"  And  that 's  I,  of  course,  you  mean  to  imply  ?  " 

*'  I  never  said  so,  sir,"  replied  Stephen,  with  a  shrug 
of  his  shoulders. 

Mr.  Mitford  was  very  angry.  He  got  up  and  walked 
about  the  room,  with  his  hands  deeply  dug  into  his 
pockets,  saying  to  himself  from  time  to  time,  "  By 
George !  "  with  other  exclamations  perhaps  less  inno- 
cent. It  was  as  good  a  way  as  another  of  blowing  off 
his  wrath.  Meanwhile,  the  culprit  sat  with  an  air  of 
coolness  and  contemptuous  indifference  which  exasper- 
ated his  father  more  and  more,  stretching  out  his  long- 
legs  in  such  a  way  as  to  bar  the  passage  and  confine 
the  Squire  to  his  own  side. 

"If  I  ever  said  a  word  that  could  be  twisted  into 
such  a  meaning,  it  must  have  been  when  I  thought  you 
a  little  serious,  impressed  by  what  had  happened, —  as 
you  might  have  been,  if  you  had  any  feeling:  but 
there 's  no  feeling  of  that  sort  left  in  the  world,  so  far 


AN  ALTERCATION.  433 

as  I  can  see.  Here  's  one  of  you  trying  to  get  the  reins 
out  of  my  hands,  and  the  other  holding  secret  confabs 
with  a  pettifogging  lawyer,  a  fellow  that  wants  to 
bring  me  to  book, —  ine!"  the  Squire  cried,  with  an 
indignant,  almost  incredulous  sense  of  undeserved  in- 
sult and  injury.  "  Heaven  knows  I  have  had  trouble 
enough,  one  way  or  another,  on  account  of  my  sons,'' 
he  went  on,  changing  into  a  tone  which  was  almost 
tearful;  for  to  think  of  all  he  had  suffered  overcame 
him  with  self-pity.  "  All  the  trouble  I  have  known 
has  been  connected  with  one  or  other  of  you.  The  man 
who  has  no  children  has  the  best  of  it.  But  there  is  one 
thing  you  may  be  quite  sure  of,  and  you  had  better  both 
of  you  mark  what  I  have  to  say.  I  will  not  have  you 
meddling  in  my  affairs.  Thank  Heaven,  I  'm  very 
well  capable  of  minding  my  own  business.  Whatever 
I  may  be  supposed  to  have  said,  this  is  my  last  word. 
I  '11  have  none  of  your  meddling, —  neither  yours,  Ste- 
phen, nor  yours,  Ned ;  neither  the  one  nor  the  other ! 
The  first  man  who  interferes  shall  go.  I  '11  have  none 
of  it  —  I  '11  have  "  — 

Stephen  got  up  from  his  chair  with  a  laugh,  shaking 
himself  out  of  all  creases  in  his  well-fitting  clothes. 
"  That's  just  what  I  should  like,  for  one,"  he  remarked. 
"  Don't  restrain  your  feelings,  sir.  I  am  delighted  to 
go." 

Mr.  Mitford  turned  like  a  bull  who  is  confronted  by 
a  new  assailant ;  but  a  man  and  a  father  cannot  take  a 
ribald  upon  his  horns,  like  that  well-provided  animal. 
He  stared  for  a  moment,  with  fiery  eyes  that  seemed  to 
be  leaping  from  their  sockets,  and  then  he  recognized, 
as  the  angriest  man  must,  that  barrier  of  the  immov- 
able which  an  altogether  unimpressionable  human 
being,  however  insignificant,  can  place  before  the  most 


434  THE  SECOND  SON. 

mighty.  Stephen  was  not  to  be  influenced  by  any  of 
those  causes  which  make  it  possible  for  a  domestic  des 
pot  to  have  his  way.  He  was  not  afraid  of  the  penalty 
involved.  He  had  no  reluctance  to  see  his  father  com- 
promise his  own  dignity  by  unbecoming  threats  or 
violence.  Edmund,  moved  by  that  sentiment,  had 
turned  away,  willing  rather  to  submit  or  to  retire  than 
to  be  thus  compelled  to  witness  a  scene  which  made  him 
ashamed  for  his  father.  But  Stephen  knew  none  of 
these  delicacies ;  he  was  entirely  free  from  all  such  re- 
straints. The  Squire  was  like  any  other  old  fellow, 
who  threatened  a  great  deal  more  than  he  could  ever 
perform.  And  Mr.  Mitford  recognized  this,  as  he 
stared  at  the  heir  of  his  choice,  this  young  man  to  whom 
he  had  given  the  chief  place  in  the  family, —  that  being, 
quite  invulnerable,  untouched  by  sympathy,  natural  re- 
spect, or  human  feeling,  who  is  the  fit  and  only  oppo- 
nent of  the  family  tyrant.  He  stared  and  gasped  with 
exasperation  unspeakable,  and  the  feeling  that  Jove's 
thunderbolt  would  be  the  only  effectual  instrument  to 
level  the  rebel  to  the  ground  instantaneously.  Perhaps, 
vulgarly  considered,  Prometheus  was  something  of  this 
intolerable  sort  to  the  father  of  gods  and  men.  The 
cool  cynicism  of  Stephen's  eyes  struck  his  father  like 
a  blow.  They  said,  "  You  have  done  that  once  too 
often  already.  Do  it, —  I  'd  like  it.  Make  an  old 
fool  of  yourself  !  "  But  after  that  astonished,  incredu- 
lous stare  of  the  Jupiter  manqu£,  Mr.  Mitford  came  to 
himself.  Passion  itself  could  not  stand  before  those 
cynic  eyes.  Virtue  and  heroic  suffering  are  alone  sup- 
posed to  possess  this  restraining  power ;  but  perhaps  it 
will  be  found  that  the  less  elevated  defiance  has  the 
greater  influence,  the  sneering  devil  being  more  potent 
with  the  common  mind  than  the  serious  hero.  Mr. 


AN  ALTERCATION.  435 

Mitford  made  the  discovery  that  in  whatsoever  way  he 
might  be  able  to  establish  his  authority,  this  way  would 
not  do.  He  solaced  his  personal  discomfiture  by  an 
attack  upon  the  one  remaining,  who  would  not  flout 
nor  defy  him,  and  turned  upon  Edmund  with  a  snort 
of  wrath. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  you  '11  curry  favor  with  Lizzy 
Travers,"  he  cried,  "by  playing  into  her  hands,  and 
defying  me.  You  '11  find  that 's  not  so  :  she 's  not  the 
girl  to  encourage  a  man  to  desert  his  own  side." 

Edmund  was  much  surprised  by  this  unexpected 
attack.  "  Mr.  Gavelkind  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said, 
"  which  was  the  reason  I  went  out  with  him.  I  had 
no  thought  of  deserting  my  own  side ;  but  since  you 
blame  me,  I  will  venture  to  return  to  the  original  sub- 
ject, sir.  Is  Ford  dismissed  with  your  consent?  And 
if  not,  may  not  I  go  and  reassure  them,  and  let  them 
know  that  they  are  not  to  be  hurried  away  ?  " 

The  Squire  looked  at  Edmund  severely.  It  gave 
him  great  satisfaction  to  come  upon  some  one  who 
would  not  rebel.  He  took  a  high  tone.  "  One  would 
think,"  he  remarked,  "  that  the  welfare  of  these  people 
was  of  more  importance  to  you  than  the  credit  of  your 
family.  They  have  not  deserved  much  at  my  hands." 

It  struck  Edmund  with  a  sort  of  dreary  amusement 
that  he  should  be  the  one  to  be  accused  of  partiality 
for  the  Fords, —  he,  who  was  the  only  one  entirely  un- 
influenced by  them.  He  said  with  a  faint  smile,  "  I 
am  no  partisan  of  the  Fords,  —  it  would  be  strange  if  I 
were  ;  but  they  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  this,  and 
it  would  be  cruel  to  punish  them  for  a  fault  —  for  a 
fault  —  which  was  not  theirs." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  the  girl  was  brought 
up  for  any  other  end  ?  Why,  she  was  trained  to  in- 


436  THE   SECOND   SON. 

veigle  one  of  my  sons,  or  somebody  else, —  Ray  Tred- 
gold,  perhaps,  who  is  not  quite  such  a  fool, —  into  mak- 
ing a  lady  of  her.  A  child  could  see  that,"  said  the 
Squire,  with  indignation.  "  I  cannot  understand  how 
any  man,  considering  all  the  circumstances,  can  speak 
of  the  Fords  to  me." 

"That  was  my  idea,"  returned  Stephen  boldly. 
"  I  felt  that  they  ought  to  go,  but  I  did  n't  think 
that  you  ought  to  be  bothered  with  the  name  of  them. 
If  I  went  a  little  further  than  I  ought  to  have  done, 
that  was  my  idea.  Their  name  can't  be  very  agree- 
able to  any  of  us,"  he  added,  with  a  deep-drawn 
breath.  "  If  I  went  too  far,  that 's  my  only  ex- 
cuse." 

u  Well,  Steve,"  said  the  father,-  "  I  am  glad  you 
see  it  as  I  do,  and  that,  if  you  were  wrong,  it  was 
an  error  of  judgment  only.  After  what  you  've  said, 
I  '11  allow  that.  But  Ned  is  one  of  the  fellows  that 
like  to  turn  the  sword  round  in  a  wound.  He  thinks 
that  's  the  way  to  make  a  man  forget." 

"  I  thought  solely  of  the  injustice  to  them,"  urged 
Edmund,  "  not  of  ourselves  at  all.  It  cannot  be 
worth  your  while,  sir,  on  whatever  provocation,  to  wage 
civil  war  upon  your  gamekeeper.  Send  him  away,  by 
all  means,  —  I  should  be  glad,  I  confess,  to  get  rid 
of  the  sound  of  their  name  ;  but  let  it  be  fairly,  with 
such  warning  as  is  natural,  or  at  least  with  time 
enough  to  provide  themselves  with  another  home. 
Suppose  they  have  been  scheming,  artful,  whatever 
you  may  call  it :  you  can't  punish  them  for  that  as  for 
a  crime." 

"It's  a  deal  worse  than  many  a  crime,"  asserted 
Stephen,  with  a  black  look  which  transformed  his 
face.  "  It 's  the  sort  of  thing  you  smother  vermin 


AN  ALTERCATION.  437 

for.  Eveii  poaching  I  'd  look  over  sooner.  I  don't 
pretend  to  be  one  of  your  forgiving  people.  There 
are  some  things  I  '11  never  forgive,  nor  forget." 

Mr.  Mitford  gave  him  a  grateful  look.  He  was 
much  relieved  by  the  disappearance  of  Stephen's 
sneer,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  recovered  his  proper  posi- 
tion when  his  son  condescended  to  explain.  "  I  am 
glad  to  see  that  you  feel  as  I  do,  Steve,"  he  repeated. 
"  Ned  has  his  own  ways  of  thinking,  though  I  should 
have  supposed  he  had  more  feeling  for  his  brother 
than  to  stand  up  for  the  Fords.  I  don't  want  them 
to  make  out  a  case  for  Lizzy  Travers's  charity,  though. 
I  '11  speak  to  Brown,  and  he  shall  buy  them  off  and 
get  them  out  of  the  country ;  and  you  and  I  will  go 
over  to  Mount  Travers  and  explain.  You  may  do 
some  business  for  yourself  at  the  same  time,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh,  to  which  Stephen  responded.  The  two 
were  once  more  in  full  intelligence,  understanding  each 
other's  thoughts  and  wishes. 

To  Edmund's  sensitive  ears  the  laugh  was  intoler- 
able. It  was  full  of  that  rude  and  primitive  meaning 
which  lurks  so  often  in  the  private  sympathetic  chuckle 
with  which  two  men  discuss  a  woman.  He  went  out 
of  the  room  quickly,  with  a  nervous  impatience,  over 
which  he  had  no  control.  In  the  experience  of  all 
sensitive  persons,  there  arises  now  and  then  a  moment 
when  contrariety  seems  in  the  very  air,  and  everything 
turns  against  them.  Edmund  felt  that  on  every  side 
his  wishes,  his  feelings,  his  ideas  of  all  that  was  just 
and  fit,  were  contradicted,  and  that  the  entire  world 
was  out  of  harmony  with  him.  Not  only  his  father 
and  brother,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  which 
was  full  of  them,  opposed  him  and  jarred  his  nerves 
and  temper  at  every  turn,  but  the  most  trifling  things 


438  THE  SECOND  SON. 

appeared  to  rise  in  antagonism,  and  cut  every  possibil- 
ity of  relief.  The  sourd,  mysterious  something  which 
stood  between  him  and  Elizabeth,  which  made  even 
old  Pax,  his  most  familiar  confidant,  repellent  and  un- 
harmonious,  scarcely  affected  him  more  than  those 
lesser  jars  of  contradiction  which  met  him  at  every 
turn.  That  Mrs.  Ford  should  have  refused  informa- 
tion about  Lily,  that  he  should  be  supposed  the  cham- 
pion of  the  family,  that  it  should  be  possible,  however 
falsely,  to  gibe  at  his  forgetfulness  of  their  disastrous 
influence  over  Roger,  —  he  whose  heart  was  the  only 
one  faithful  to  Roger,  —  exasperated  him  almost  be- 
yond bearing.  He  went  out  with  that  sensation  of 
being  unable  to  bear  anything  more,  or  endure  an- 
other moment  of  this  contrariety  and  horrible  antag- 
onism of  everything,  which  is  at  once  so  natural,  so 
inevitable,  so  foolish.  Women  find  relief  in  tears  at 
such  moments,  but  Edmund  could  get  no  such  relief ; 
everything  was  against  him  ;  he  was  despondent  yet 
exasperated,  angry  as  well  as  sad.  Why  should  he 
go  to  Mount  Travers,  where  everything  was  already 
decided  against  him  ?  Why  stay  here,  where  he  was 
put  out  of  all  influence,  misrepresented,  misunderstood ; 
where  his  attempt  to  do  justice  was  taken  for  partial- 
ity towards  the  offender,  and  his  anxious  endeavor 
to  carry  out  his  dead  brother's  wishes  repulsed  as  a 
curiosity  of  his  own  ?  It  was  time,  surely,  for  him  to 
shake  the  dust  off  his  feet,  and  leave  the  place  where 
he  was  disinherited,  contemned,  and  set  aside.  He 
felt  the  jar  of  the  vexation,  of  the  contradiction,  go 
to  his  very  soul.  How  much  better  to  go  away  from 
the  house  where  he  was  displaced,  from  the  love  that 
would  have  none  of  him,  from  the  country  where 
his  charities,  his  faithfulness,  his  desire  to  help  and 


AN  ALTERCATION.  439 

succor,  were  all  misconceived !  Roger  had  done  it  in 
the  most  conclusive  fashion,  shaking  off  so  many  em- 
barrassments and  troubles  along  with  the  mortal  coil. 
Edmund  thought  wistfully,  with  a  certain  envy,  of  his 
brother's  complete  escape.  He  had  no  temptation  to 
put  an  end  to  his  life,  yet  a  great  weariness  took  pos- 
session of  him.  If  he  could  but  turn  his  back  on 
everything,  flee  far  from  them !  Oh,  for  the  wings  of  a 
dove  !  But  where  ?  Not  to  some  foreign  land,  which 
was  the  ordinary  commonplace  expedient,  —  to  change 
the  sky,  but  not  the  mind.  What  Edmund  really 
wanted  was  to  escape  from  himself ;  and  that,  alas,  is 
what  none  can  do. 

At  the  same  time,  amid  all  this  contrariety,  there 
was  something,  a  spirit  in  his  feet,  driving  him  to  that 
high  house  on  the  hill,  to  which  he  had  been  invited 
that  morning.  To  see  Mr.  Gavelkind !  He  laughed, 
with  a  bitter  sense  of  humor,  at  that  idea.  The  old 
lawyer  was  his  friend,  —  there  was  no  scorn  of  him  in 
Edmund's  mind  ;  but  with  a  heart  full  of  Elizabeth, 
to  go  to  her  man  of  business !  It  would  have  been 
too  ludicrous,  if  it  had  not  been  the  greatest  contra- 
diction, the  most  irritating  contrariety  of  all. 


XLI. 

AT   MOUNT  TRAVEKS. 

"YES,  I  am  just  going.  I  wish  you  could  have 
come  a  little  e'arlier.  I  've  been  here  three  clays,  —  to 
be  sure,  one  of  them  was  a  Sunday.  There  are  a 
great  many  things  I  should  have  liked  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Edmund  said ;  but  he  had  not  the 
same  sense  that  to  talk  things  over  with  Mr.  Gavel- 
kind  was  a  matter  of  importance  which  the  lawyer 
seemed  to  feel  on  his  side. 

"  I  see ;  you  don't  feel  that  it 's  of  very  much  con- 
sequence what  I  think.  Well,  perhaps  not.  Few 
things  are  of  much  importance  taken  separately  ;  it 's 
when  they  come  together  that  they  tell.  No,  don't 
apologize ;  I  am  in  no  danger  of  misunderstanding. 
I  '11  tell  you  what,  though  :  you  should  n't  leave  things 
too  long  hanging  in  the  wind." 

"  Hanging  in  the  wind  ?  " 

"  Come,"  said  Mr.  Gavelkind,  "  I  don't  intend  to 
summer  it  and  winter  it,  as  the  country  people  say. 
You  and  I  have  been  able  to  understand  each  other 
before  now  without  putting  a  dot  on  every*.  There 's 
something  going  on  up  there  which  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

He  pointed,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  to  the  house 
on  the  hill.  The  sun  was  blazing  in  all  the  plate- 
glass,  and  made  it  flare  over  the  whole  country,  as  if 


AT  MOUNT  TR AVERS.  441 

it  were  some  great  heliograpliic  apparatus.  Edmund 
had  met  the  lawyer  going  down  to  the  station  by  the 
steep  and  short  path  which  old  Travers  had  made 
through  the  grounds.  He  had  a  little  bag  in  his  hand, 
and  his  coat  over  his  arm. 

"  To  have  to  do  with  ladies  in  business  is  a  trial," 
he  resumed.  "In  your  own  family  it's  a  different 
matter,  and  I  'm  fond  of  women  for  friends,  notwith- 
standing all  that 's  said  to  the  contrary  ;  but  to  have 
their  business  to  do,  and  to  hold  them  to  it,  and  to 
keep  reason  always  uppermost,  is  almost  too  much  for 
me." 

"  I  have  heard  you  commend  Miss  Travers's  capac- 
ity for  business,  all  the  same." 

"  That  I  have,  and  meant  it,  too  !  She  has  a  good 
head,  and  a  clear  head ;  but  there 's  always  some 
point  in  which  reason  is  not  the  sole  guide  with  wo- 
men. It  may  take  a  long  time  to  find  it  out,  but  it 
always  appears  at  the  end.  There 's  this  business 
about  these  Fords  —  Ah,  Mrs.  Travers !  "  exclaimed 
Mr.  Gavelkind,  hastily  transferring  his  coat  to  his 
left  arm  that  he  might  take  off  his  hat.  "  I  knew 
you  were  out-of-doors,  but  I  did  n't  think  you  would 
venture  down  a  steep  road  like  this." 

"  I  did  n't.  I  came  the  other  way,  to  say  good-by 
to  you  ;  I  could  n't  let  you  go  without  saying  good-by. 
And  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Gavelkind.  I  hope  she 
will  really  arrange  some  time  to  come  with  you  and 
stay  a  little  while.  Saturday  to  Monday  I  don't  con- 
sider a  visit  at  all." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  I  'm  sure,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  It 's  been  Friday  to  Monday,  this  time,  and  a  great 
deal  of  business  got  through.  I  '11  give  my  wife  your 
kind  message.  Miss  Travers  had  already  asked  "  — 


442  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  the  old  lady  quickly,  "  that  your 
wife,  being  an  older  person,  would  not  think  much 
of  an  invitation  from  Lizzy,  while  the  mistress  of  the 
house  said  nothing ;  but  you  can  tell  her  f  i-orn  me  that 
it's  all  the  same.  We  '11  be  highly  pleased  to  see  her 
any  time  before  the  end  of  the  summer.  Good-by, 
Mr.  Gavelkind." 

The  lawyer  shot  a  glance  at  Edmund  underneath 
his  brows,  but  he  took  his  leave  very  ceremoniously 
of  the  old  lady,  who  had  been  accompanied  by  a 
female  figure,  a  few  steps  behind  her.  She  turned 
round  to  take  this  companion's  arm,  to  mount  the 
slope. 

"  Why,  the  girl  is  gone !  "  she  cried.  "  Mr.  Mit- 
ford,  I  beg  your  pardon !  I  was  so  occupied  in  saying 
good-by  to  Mr.  Gavelkind  that  I  've  never  said  '  Plow 
d'  ye  do'  to  you.  I  wonder  if  you  '11  give  me  your 
arm  to  help  me  up  the  bank.  Thank  you.  I  've  al- 
ways noticed  you  were  nice  to  old  people.  And  so 
was  your  poor  brother.  Is  it  true  what  I  hear,  that 
it 's  the  youngest  that  is  to  succeed  to  the  property  ? 
Somebody  told  me  so  this  very  day." 

"  There  is  no  question  of  succeeding  to  the  prop- 
erty at  present,  Mrs.  Travers.  My  father  is  well  and 
strong,  and  I  hope  may  keep  it  himself  for  many 
years." 

"That's  a  very  proper  feeling;  I  approve  of  it 
greatly.  When  Lizzy  marries,  I  hope  it  will  not  be 
any  one  who  will  grudge  me  every  day  I  live ;  for  of 
course  I  will  leave  her  everything,  —  everything  that 
is  in  my  power.'* 

Edmund  made  a  little  bow  of  assent,  but  he  did 
not  feel  it  necessary  to  enter  into  the  possible  senti- 
ments of  the  man  whom  Lizzy  might  marry.  The 


AT  MOUNT  TR AVERS.  443 

old  lady  looked  at  him  closely,  her  keen  eyes  un- 
dimined  by  the  little  gasps  and  pantings  with  which 
she  had  dragged  herself  up  the  steep  ascent. 

"  I  have  not  so  much  in  my  power  as  you  would 
think,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  "  for  all  the  property  be- 
longs to  Lizzy  after  my  death.  Her  uncle  thought 
that  was  only  just,  seeing  that  her  father  began  the 
business,  though  it  was  my  husband  who  made  the 
money.  Everybody  has  his  own  way  of  thinking, 
Mr.  Mitford,  but  I  must  say  I  felt  it  a  little  not  to 
have  anything  in  my  own  power.  Of  course  I  should 
have  left  it  to  Lizzy,  —  who  else  should  I  leave  it  to  ? 
—  but  everybody  likes  to  be  trusted,  and  to  have 
something  in  their  own  power." 

"  No  doubt,"  returned  Edmund,  gravely.  The 
little  old  lady  clung  to  his  arm,  and  kept  looking  up 
from  time  to  time  suddenly,  as  if  to  take  him  at  a 
disadvantage,  and  read  whatever  unintentional  mean- 
ing might  pass  over  his  face. 

"  If  she  married  a  man  whom  I  approved  of,  they 
might  go  on  living  with  me,  perhaps.  I  would  not 
make  it  a  promise ;  but  if  he  were  a  person  I  liked, 
and  one  who  would  behave  properly  to  an  elderly  lady. 
They  don't  generally,  Mr.  Mitford  ;  when  a  woman 
has  ceased  to  be  young,  they  have  a  way  of  looking  at 
her  as  if  she  had  no  right  to  live  at  all.  Oh,  I  know 
what  I  am  saying.  I  am  not  Lizzy's  mother,  it  is 
true,  but  I  should  be  more  or  less  in  the  position  of 
a  mother-in-law,  and  that  is  what  I  never  could  put  up 
with.  Give  a  dog  an  ill-name  and  hang  him,  they 
say  ;  call  a  woman  a  mother-in-law,  and  it 's  the  same 
thing ;  though  why  a  respectable  woman  should  be 
turned  into  a  fiend  by  the  marriage  of  her  daughter  I 
have  never  been  able  to  find  out.  Happily,  Lizzy  is 


444  THE   SECOND  SON. 

not  my  daughter,  but  it  comes  to  very  much  the  same 
thing." 

As  she  paused  for  a  reply,  Edmund  felt  himself 
obliged  to  say  that  the  general  hatred  of  mothers-in- 
law  was  "  only  a  joke." 

"  A  joke !  It 's  a  joke  in  very  bad  taste,  Mr. 
Mitford.  But  you  may  rely  upon  it,  I  know  what 
I  am  talking  about.  You  were  very  civil,  giving  me 
your  arm  when  that  girl  ran  away.  (It  was  very  silly 
of  her  to  run  away,  but  she  can't  bear  to  be  seen 
about,  poor  thing  !)  And  your  father  was  very  polite 
the  last  time  he  was  here.  He  looked  to  me  as  if  he 
were  bent  on  finding  out  something  ;  but  he  was  very 
polite,  all  the  same,  and  made  himself  quite  agree- 
able. Tell  me  about  your  brother,  —  the  brother 
that  is  to  be  the  successor,  according  to  what  people 
say.  Oh  !  I  forgot ;  you  don't  wish  to  talk  of 
that." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  talk  of  it.  I  believe  you 
are  quite  right,  and  that  Stephen  is  to  be  my  father's 
heir." 

"  I  have  always  heard  it  was  a  very  nice  property," 
she  remarked.  "  My  dear  Mr.  Mitford,  I  am  sure 
you  must  have  played  your  cards  very  badly,  when 
your  kind  father  cuts  you  off  like  that." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  replied  Edmund,  with  a  half  smile  ; 
"  or  perhaps  he  thinks  my  brother  better  fitted  to 
keep  up  the  character  of  a  country  gentleman,  and  he 
may  be  quite  right." 

"  You  take  it  very  coolly,  anyhow,"  said  Mrs. 
Travers ;  "  and  you  really  think  that  Mr.  Stephen  — 
is  n't  that  his  name  ?  Oh,  Captain,  to  be  sure  ;  I  had 
forgot  —  will  keep  it  up  best  ?  Well,  I  never  was 
brought  up  with  any  superstition  about  an  eldest  son, 


AT  MOUNT  TR AVERS.  445 

myself.  I  know  your  younger  brother  least  of  any  of 
you.  I  hope  he  '11  come  and  see  us.  I  am  devoted  to 
the  army,  and  I  like  people  pf  decided  character. 
Tell  him  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him  at  Mount  Travers. 
Mr.  Mitford,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  I  don't 
require  to  trouble  you  any  more,  now  we  have  got  up 
to  the  level  of  the  house."  And  she  drew  her  arm 
briskly  out  of  his,  and  stood  still  for  a  moment,  turn- 
ing round  upon  him  as  if  to  give  him  his  dismissal. 

Edmund  felt  with  a  sense  of  pleasure  that,  notwith- 
standing all  that  had  happened,  his  mind  was  as  ca- 
pable of  being  amused  as  ever.  He  had  been  vague 
enough  up  to  this  moment,  not  decided  whether  he 
should  go  or  not.  But  Mrs.  Travers  made  up  his 
mind  for  him.  "  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  I  may  call, 
though  I  am  no  longer  of  any  use ;  for  I  have  a  mes- 
sage for  Miss  Travers  from  the  Recto ry." 

"  Oh,  from  Pax,  as  Lizzy  calls  her ;  an  absurd 
name,  and  I  think  she 's  rather  an  absurd  person.  I 
can 't  see  what  Lizzy  finds  in  her,  —  very  limited  and 
prejudiced,  like  all  the  clergy  people,  and  very  fond 
of  her  own  way.  Oh,  surely,  Mr.  Mitford,  come  in, 
come  in :  you  '11  find  Lizzy  in  the  drawing-room 
Good-by,  in  case  I  should  not  see  you  again." 

Elizabeth  was  seated  at  the  further  end  of  the  room, 
at  a  writing-table,  with  her  back  tui'ned  towards  the 
door.  She  got  up  with  a  little  stumble  of  excitement, 
when  she  became  aware  of  Edmund's  presence.  "  You 
must  pardon  me,"  he  said, "  for  coming  in  unannounced. 
I  met  Mrs.  Travers  at  the  foot  of  the  bank,  and  came 
back  with  her.  She  told  me  I  should  find  you  here." 

"  Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  holding  out  her  hand.  She 
added,  in  a  voice  which  was  slightly  tremulous,  "  I  am 
always  at  home  at  this  hour." 


446  THE   SECOND  SON. 

Did  she  wish  him  to  be  aware  of  that  ?  Or  was  it  a 
mere  impulse  of  shyness,  and  because  she  did  not  know 
what  to  say  ?  I 

They  sat  down  near  each  other,  in  the  great  room 
with  the  vast  plate-glass  window,  which  took  away  all 
sense  of  being  within  doors,  and  made  that  wide  land- 
scape part  of  the  scene,  and  for  perhaps  a  whole  long 
minute  neither  spoke.  There  was'  a  screen  arranged 
round  Mrs.  Travers's  little  table  and  easy-chair,  to 
preserve  her  from  some  imaginary  draught,  or  perhaps 
to  give  a  sense  of  shelter  where  all  was  so  blank  and 
wide.  Elizabeth  looked  at  her  visitor  with  something 
like  a  sentiment  of  alarm  in  her  wide-open  eyes.  The 
two  seemed  at  last  to  have  met  alone,  in  a  vast  centre  of 
naked  space,  where  there  could  no  longer  be  any  veil 
of  mystery  between  them.  Edmund  was  not  so  ready 
as  she  was  expectant.  He  had  not  come  with  any 
definite  idea  in  his  mind  as  to  what  he  was  to  do  or  say, 
but  only  to  see  her,  to  speak  to  her,  to  follow  any  lead- 
ing that  good  or  evil  fortune  might  put  in  his  way. 

"I  met  Mr.  Gavelkind,  on  his  way  to  town." 

"  He  has  been  here  since  Friday.  He  is  a  very  warm 
friend"  — 

"  You  could,  I  am  sure,  have  nobody  more  devoted 
to  your  interests." 

"  I  meant  of  yours,  Mr.  Mitford.  He  has  always  a 
great  deal  to  say  of  you." 

"Of  me?"  responded  Edmund,  with  a  smile. 
"  That 's  strange !  I  have  got  so  wiped  out  of  every- 
thing that  it  is  odd  to  hear  of  any  one  who  thinks  of 
me." 

"  You  are  too  kind,"  said  Miss  Travers ;  "  you  let 
the  thought  of  duty  carry  you  too  far.  Duty  must  have 
a  limit.  There  is  something  that  perhaps  I  ought  to 


AT  MOUNT  TR  AVERS.  447 

tell  you ;  but  when  I  see  that  you  are  deceived,  or  that 
you  think  yourself  bound  to  regard  as  sacred,  to  uphold 
and  to  justify  "  — 

"  What  ?  "  he  asked,  bending  forward  towards  her, 
too  much  astonished  to  say  more. 

"  Mr.  Mitford,  I  don't  know  how  to  speak.  It  is  not 
a  thing  to  be  discussed  between  you  and  me.  But  when 
I  see  how  you  are  making  an  idol  of  one  who  —  when 
I  perceive  how  you  are  devoting  yourself  to  carry  out 
plans  which  —  and  letting  your  life  and  everything  in 
it  go  by  "  — 

Elizabeth's  voice  had  begun  to  tremble,  her  eyes  were 
filling  with  tears,  her  color  changed  from  red  to  white. 
She  kept  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands,  hi  the 
strain  of  some  excitement,  the  cause  of  which  he  could 
not  discover.  What  was  its  cause,  and  how  was  he  in- 
volved in  it  ?  And  what  was  this  purpose  which  she 
attributed  to  him,  which  made  him  let  his  own  life  go 
by? 

"My  own  life?"  he  said.  "I  seem  to  have  none. 
I  am  pushed  aside  from  everything,  but  I  wish  I  could 
think  you  cared  what  became  of  my  life.  I  should 
like  to  tell  you  how  it  has  been  arrested  for  months 
in  the  only  great  wish  I  have  ever  formed  for  myself. 
Miss  Travers,  my  brother  Roger  "  — 

"Oh! "  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  with  something 
which  looked  like  a  wild  and  feverish  impatience. 
"  Don't  speak  to  me  of  Roger, —  I  don't  want  to  know 
any  more  of  him !  I  would  rather  never  hear  his  name 
again  !  " 

She  got  up  as  she  spoke,  starting  from  the  chair  as 
though  she  could  no  longer  tolerate  the  situation,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  great  window,  her 
tall  figure  showing  against  the  background  of  the  vast 


448  THE  SECOND  SON. 

landscape  outside.  She  turned  her  back  upon  it,  and 
stood  facing  him,  twisting  her  fingers  together,  in  her 
agitation. 

"Mr.  Mitford,"  she  said,  clearing  her  throat,  "I 
know  I  ought  to  have  told  you  —  I  ought  to  tell  you" 
—  The  door  opened  while  the  words  were  on  her  lips. 
Elizabeth  made  a  movement  of  almost  angry  impa- 
tience. "  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  it,  and  now  I 
can't  do  it !  "  she  cried,  turning  away  hastily.  Edmund 
had  risen,  too,  he  could  scarcely  tell  why.  She  had 
turned  round,  and  stood  gazing  out  of  the  window,  in 
a  tremor  of  suspense  and  agitation,  disappointed  and 
excited.  Mrs.  Travers  appeared  at  the  door,  relieved 
of  her  out-door  garments,  with  her  little  pale  face  sur- 
rounded by  the  dead  white  of  her  widow's  cap,  and 
everything  about  her  breathing  the  tranquillity  of  the 
common  day.  The  extraordinary  difference  and  con- 
trast startled  Edmund.  He  did  not  know  why  Eliza- 
beth should  be  so  excited ;  but  he  perceived  the  serious- 
ness of  her  agitation,  and  how  much  it  must  mean,  when 
he  saw  her  spring  up  and  go  to  the  window,  as  Mrs. 
Travers  came  softly  in  and  took  her  usual  place.  A 
third  person,  whom  he  did  not  remark,  except  that  there 
was  a  movement  of  some  one  following,  came  in  with 
the  old  lady;  half  visible  for  a  moment  then  disap- 
pearing behind  the  screen.  He  had  an  impression,  of 
which  he  took  no  heed  amid  the  other  images,  more 
urgent,  that  filled  up  all  the  foreground,  that  this  third 
person,  the  attendant,  whoever  she  was,  remained  in  the 
room,  though  unseen. 

"  So  you  found  Lizzy,  Mr.  Mitford  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Travers.  "  I  thought  you  would  find  her  here.  I  did 
intend  to  let  you  have  her  all  to  yourself,  while  I  rested 
a  little.  But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  we  saw  your  father 


AT  MOUNT  TR AVERS.  449 

and  your  brother  coming  this  way,  and  I  put  on  iny 
cap  and  came  down.  I  could  'nt  leave  Lizzy  to  enter- 
tain three  gentlemen,  all  of  the  same  family :  that 
would  have  been  too  much." 

Elizabeth  turned  quickly  from  the  window.  "  I  see 
them :  they  are  just  here,"  she  said. 

"  And  I  wanted  particularly  to  see  the  captain, —  I 
have  always  told  you  I  liked  military  men,"  returned 
her  aunt;  "but  don't  let  Mr.  Edmund  Mitford  go 
away  for  that.  He  is  not  ashamed,  I  suppose,  of  being 
found  here." 

Elizabeth  came  and  sat  down  near  him,  not  conceal- 
ing the  tremulous  condition  in  which  she  was  ;  she  gave 
him  a  look  of  disappointment,  mingled  with  an  almost 
feverish  irritation  and  annoyance,  and  faintly  shook 
her  head.  She  had  something  to  tell  him,  and  she  had 
been  made  to  stop  with  the  very  words  in  her  mouth. 
Her  eyes  had  a  certain  pleading  in  them  that  he  should 
not  go  away,  and  Edmund  had  no  wish  to  go  away. 
He  was  glad  to  be  here,  to  watch  what  his  father  and 
brother  intended,  to  find  out  their  purpose.  What- 
ever aim  they  might  have,  it  was  well  that  there  should 
be  some  one  to  keep  a  watch  on  that. 


XLII. 

A    EEVELATION. 

"On,  you've  got  here  before  us,  Ned,"  Stephen  re- 
marked in  an  aside,  in  his  amiable  way.  He  drew  a 
chair  near  to  that  from  which  Elizabeth  had  risen  on 
the  entry  of  the  new-comers,  and  which  she  had  re- 
sumed nervously,  still  with  that  thrill  of  agitation. 
She  was  thus  seated  between  the  brothers,  Stephen 
bending  towards  her,  half  turning  his  back  upon  the 
window.  "  It  is  dazzling  to  come  in  here,"  he  observed. 
"  The  country  does  n't  look  half  so  sunny  and  bril- 
liant outside.  It  must  be  something  in  this  room." 

He  looked  at  her,  as  he  spoke,  with  a  laugh  and 
an  admiring  gaze  which  indicated  his  meaning  almost 
too  distinctly.  The  time  of  broad  compliment  has 
passed  away,  and  Elizabeth  was  unacquainted  with 
that  form  of  address.  She  gave  him  an  astonished 
look. 

"  Of  course  it  is  something  in  this  room,"  said  the 
Squire.  "  Young  fellows  are  not  so  ready  as  they  were 
in  our  day,  Mrs.  Travers.  I  think  I  could  have  put 
it  more  neatly,  in  my  time  "  — 

"  It  is  the  plate  -  glass,"  suggested  the  old  lady. 
"  As  for  the  other  sort  of  thing,  my  time  's  over,  and 
Lizzy 's  too  serious.  I  don't  know  why  the  plate- 
glass  should  have  that  effect.  I  always  told  Mr. 
Travers  that  we  wanted  shade ;  but  trees  won't  grow 
in  a  day,  and  the  plate-glass  is  like  a  mirror,  —  that 's 
what  it  is." 


A   REVELATION.  451 

"  It 's  the  light  within,"  said  Mr.  Mitford,  with  an 
old-fashioned  bow  that  took  in  both  the  ladies.  "  My 
son  Stephen  has  scarcely  been  at  home,  to  stay,  since 
he  was  a  boy.  But  he  turns  up  when  I  want  him. 
We  need  to  hold  together  now." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Mrs.  Travers  replied,  with  the  grav- 
ity that  befitted  the  situation,  "  the  fewer  you  get,  the 
more  you  ought  to  cling  close ;  but  it  is  n't  all  fami- 
lies that  do  that." 

"It  wants  a  pretty  strong  inducement,"  said  Ste- 
phen, "  to  make  a  man  bury  himself  in  the  country  in 
June.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  Oh,  I  know  it 's  the 
height  of  summer,  and  all  that ;  but  on  the  other 
hand,  there  's  nothing  for  a  man  to  do.  Tennis,  yes  ; 
but  tennis  soon  palls,  don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Trav- 
ers? —  with  the  Miss  Tredgolds  and  a  curate  or 
two." 

His  own  laugh  was  the  only  one  that  Stephen  drew 
out,  which  was  uncomfortable.  Elizabeth  was  too 
completely  preoccupied  to  be  able  to  give  him  more 
than  the  faintest  smile.  "  I  am  no  authority,"  she 
said.  "  I  never  play." 

"  We  must  find  something  for  him  to  do  till  Sep- 
tember, Miss  Travers,"  remarked  the  Squire.  "I 
shall  trust  to  you  ladies  to  help  me  in  that.  In  Sep- 
tember we  all  come  to  life,  you  know.  And  that 
reminds  me  of  our  particular  errand,  Stephen.  It 
appears  there  is  one  of  our  keepers,  Ford,  whom  you 
ladies  have  taken  a  fancy  to." 

"  Ford  ? "  Elizabeth  said,  with  a  sudden  interest. 
"Yes,  I  know  something  of  him."  She  gave  a  quick 
look  round,  and  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment 
whether  she  should  not  get  up  and  call  some  one,  but 
reconsidered  the  matter,  and  sat  still. 


452  THE  SECOND  SON. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  said  the  Squire,  playfully 
holding  up  and  shaking  a  finger  at  her,  "  don't  you 
know  —  But  I  am  sure  you  don't,  or  you  would 
never  have  done  it.  Among  us  men,  it 's  not  quite 
the  thing  —  it 's  not  considered  quite  the  thing  to  in- 
terfere with  another  man's  servants.  We  are  but  sav- 
ages, more  or  less.  I  know  our  ways  are  not  ladies' 
ways." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Elizabeth.  "  I 
have  never  intended  to  interfere.  I  take  an  interest 
in  the  man,  —  that  is  true.  He  came  to  tell  me  he 
was  turned  out  at  a  moment's  notice,  —  threatened 
with  the  police." 

"  That  was  all  a  bit  of  nonsense,"  observed  the 
Squire,  bland  and  smiling.  "  There 's  the  culprit, 
looking  ashamed  of  himself,  as  he  ought,  come  to  beg 
your  pardon,  my  dear  young  lady.  Speak  up,  Steve. 
You  're  on  your  trial,  my  boy,  and  before  such  a  judge 
it 's  worth  while  clearing  yourself." 

"  I  hope  I  '11  meet  with  mercy,"  said  Stephen.  "  It 's 
my  ill-fate  that  though  I  know  Miss  Travers  so  well, 
she  knows  me  little,  I  fear,  and  possibly  does  n't  — 
trust  me."  He  was  used  to  good  fortune  with  wo- 
men, and  he  knew  that  among  the  class  to  which  he 
was  accustomed  a  bold  front  was  half  the  battle.  He 
looked  at  Elizabeth  with  an  air  which  was  half  in- 
gratiating, half  insolent.  "  I  'm  not,  perhaps,  good 
for  very  much  ;  but  if  I  had  known  you  took  an  in- 
terest in  the  people,  why,  that  would  have  made  all 
the  difference.  But  I  had  n't  a  notion  —  You  'd 
better  speak  for  me,  sir.  I  haven't  the  ear  of  the 
court." 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  we  take  a  very  strong  in- 
terest in  the  Fords,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  looking  up  from 


A   REVELATION.  453 

her  work.  "  We  think  they  've  had  a  great  deal  to 
bear  from  your  family.  I  don't  know  all  the  details 
myself,  but  Elizabeth  does.  Probably  Mr.  Mitford 
himself  does  n't  know,  Lizzy ;  and  Captain  Mitford, 
who  has  been  away  for  so  long,  and  is  really  almost  a 
stranger  in  Melcombe  "  — 

"It  is  true,"  interrupted  Elizabeth.  "I  ought  to 
have  thought.  I  know  only  one  side,  and  perhaps 
you  know  only  another.  I  have  no  right  to  be  the 
judge." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Travers,  we  are  delighted,  delighted 
to  have  you  for  the  judge.  Where  cotdd  we  find  one 
so  gentle,  one  so  fair,  in  both  senses  of  the  word  ? 
Speak  up,  can't  you,  Steve,  and  tell  all  your  bad  mean- 
ing. Of  course  he  had  a  bad  meaning  ;  not  abstract 
justice,  —  oh,  no,  that 's  seldom  what  we  think  of. 
Speak  up  !  A  fellow  like  you  should  get  the  ladies  to 
take  his  part." 

"  I  'm  quite  ready,  for  one,"  responded  little  Mrs. 
Travers,  laying  her  work  down  upon  her  lap.  "  I  'm 
always  a  friend  to  military  men.  Where  should  we 
be  without  them?  There  would  be  no  security  for 
anything,  I  always  say." 

"  There  's  encouragement  for  you,  Steve,"  remarked 
his  father,  with  a  laugh. 

"  If  there 's  to  be  a  trial,  the  court  had  better  be 
cleared,"  said  Edmund,  getting  up,  —  a  movement 
which  made  Stephen's  face  lighten  with  evident  sat- 
isfaction. 

"  That 's  true,"  he  assented.  "  I  had  better  have 
as  few  listeners  as  possible,  to  take  notes  of  my  enor- 
mities." 

Elizabeth  put  up  an  eager  hand.  "  Don't  go  away, 
—  don't  go  away,5'  she  pleaded,  almost  in  a  whisper, 


451  THE  SECOND  SON. 

with  an  anxious  look  and  a  return  of  that  agitation 
which  was  so  inexplicable  to  Edmund,  and  with  which 
he  alone  seemed  connected.  The  only  answer  he  could 
make  was  a  bow  of  submission,  but  he  withdrew  from 
the  group,  and  going  to  the  window,  that  universal  re- 
source for  persons  who  find  themselves  de  trop,  stood 
looking  out,  seeing  nothing,  as  such  persons  gen- 
erally do. 

"I  say,  sir,"  exclaimed  Stephen,  "this  isn't  fair. 
Here  is  Ned,  a  sort  of  counsel  for  the  defendant.  No, 
not  exactly  that,  for  I  am  the  defendant ;  but  at  all 
events  for  the  other  side.  Don't  you  know,  Miss  Trav- 
ers,  that  brothers  are  usually  on  different  sides  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,"  cried  Mrs.  Travers,  "  begin !  This 
is  getting  more  and  more  interesting."  She  was  de- 
lighted with  Stephen's  air  of  assurance,  with  his  ban- 
ter, though  it  was  not  very  refined,  and  that  look  of  a 
conquering  hero,  which  he  rarely  laid  aside. 

"  Well,  then,  here  goes.  Miss  Travers,  you  must 
know  our  view  of  these  Fords.  They  are  people, 
though  I  don't  know  details  any  more  than  Mrs. 
Travers,  who  have  been  mixed  up  in  —  in  most  pain- 
ful events.  I  know  that  much,  though  I  may  n't  know 
all.  The  governor,  there,  has  heard  a  great  deal  too 
much  about  them ;  that 's  the  truth.  I  knew  he  'd  be 
glad  to  be  rid  of  them.  I  knew  also  that  he  'd  rather 
never  hear  their  name  again.  Don't  you  see?  I 
therefore  thought  I  'd  make  bold  to  take  it  into  my 
own  hands." 

"  I  think  you  were  very  right.  Mr.  Mitford  might 
indeed  have  painful  associations,  and  he  could  not  be 
to  blame." 

Edmund  turned  round  in  amazement  to  hear  these 
words  from  Elizabeth.  To  hear  the  question  dis- 


A   REVELATION.  455 

cussed  here  at  all  was  in  itself  strange  enough,  but  to 
hear  it  with  Stephen's  gloss  of  pretended  solicitude 
for  his  father,  approved  by  Elizabeth !  The  story 
was  dim,  and  full  of  mystery  to  himself.  The  chance 
of  hearing  it  cleared  up  or  explained  away,  from  Ste- 
phen's side,  was  one  which  startled  him  out  of  all 
pretense  of  calm  spectatorship.  He  turned,  with  in- 
voluntary excitement,  to  watch  the  speakers.  As  he 
did  so,  Edmund's  eye  was  attracted  by  a  flicker  of 
movement  behind  the  screen.  There  was  a  very  nar- 
row interval  between  its  edge  and  the  wall,  —  so  nar- 
row that  a  person  standing  behind  might  see  without 
being  himself  seen.  There  seemed  to  be  preparations 
for  some  one  sitting  there  :  a  table  with  something 
white  on  it,  a  chair  pushed  against  the  wall.  These 
details  caught  Edmund's  eye  instantaneously,  as  he 
turned  his  head.  But  a  second  glance  showed  him 
moi-e.  Some  one  stood,  a  slight  dark  figure,  at  this 
coigne  of  vantage,  leaning  against  the  screen.  Her 
head  was  bowed,  her  face  invisible.  She  had  the  air 
of  clinging  so  close  as  to  obliterate  herself  in  the 
shadow  and  dark  line  of  the  piece  of  furniture.  Per- 
haps he  would  not  have  been  sure  at  all  but  for  the 
lighter  color  of  her  hair ;  her  very  face  was  pressed 
against  the  dark  velvet  of  the  screen.  He  was  so 
much  startled  that  for  the  moment  he  scarcely  heard 
what  Stephen  was  saying,  though  that  had  an  interest 
to  him  beyond  anything  which  could  be  roused  by  a 
visitor  or  servant  at  Mount  Travers,  thus  clandes- 
tinely listening  to  something  which  she  had  no  busi- 
ness to  hear. 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  said,  "  I  own  that  I  thought  that 
a  kind  of  duty ;  but  there  it  is  that  my  bad  meaning, 
as  my  father  calls  it,  comes  in.  To  get  rid  of  Ford 


456  THE  SECOND  SON. 

was  all  right,  a  relief  to  the  Squire  without  bother- 
ing him ;  but  the  fact  was,  I  had  a  man  of  my  own." 

"  A  man  of  your  own !  Go  on,  Mr.  Stephen,  go 
on.  It  is  always  more  and  more  exciting,"  cried  Mrs. 
Travers,  sitting  up  erect  in  her  chair,  and  clapping  her 
hands. 

"•  Yes,  mea  culpa,  —  that  is  the  height  of  my  of- 
fense :  I  wanted  to  put  in  my  own  man.  It  is  a  nice 
little  cottage,  with  a  charming  garden ;  and  instead  of 
that  troublesome  fellow,  Ford,  with  his  bad  antece- 
dents, I  had  planned  to  put  in  a  nice  young  couple, 
my  own—  Hallo!  What's  this?  Who's  this? 
What  —  what  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  "  Stephen  cried. 

Something  had  flitted  across  his  line  of  vision, — 
a  figure  which  Edmund  alone  had  previously  seen. 
But  even  Edmund  did  not  observe,  so  quick  was  her 
motion,  how  it  was  that  she  detached  herself  from  the 
shadow,  and  suddenly  became  visible  to  the  whole 
group,  standing  in  the  full  light  of  the  great  window. 
Stephen  acknowledged  the  wonder,  the  strangeness, 
and  the  power  of  this  apparition  by  springing  sud- 
denly to  his  feet ;  his  face,  slightly  flushed  by  his 
story  -  telling,  grew  crimson  in  a  moment ;  his  eyes 
seemed  to  project  from  his  head. 

"  Eh  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  turning  towards  the 
new  actor  on  the  scene.  "  Who  is  it  ?  What 's  hap- 
pened ?  Why,  it 's  Lily  Ford  !  " 

"  She  has  heard  her  father  reflected  upon,"  said 
Mrs.  Travers.  "  Dear,  dear,  I  forgot  she  was  about ! 
Go  away,  my  poor  girl,  go  away ;  it  was  not  meant 
for  you  to  hear." 

"  Miss  Travers,"  said  Lily,  in  a  tremulous,  hurried 
voice,  "  I  told  you  all  my  story,  every  word,  the  very 
first  day.  I  told  it  all,  except  who  it  was.  I  meant 


A   REVELATION.  457 

to  hide  that  from  you,  for  his  very  name  was  a  shame 
to  say.  Perhaps  I  've  done  harm  by  it ;  I  'm  afraid 
I  have.  I  'm  mended  of  my  folly  now.  To  hear  him 
speak  of  Ford,  that  was  troublesome,  that  had  bad 
antecedents,  that  Mr.  Mitford  could  not  bear  the 
name  of  —  Look  at  him,  Miss  Travers  ;  do  you  want 
me  to  say  more  ?  That 's  the  man  that  beguiled  me 
up  to  London;  that  was  to  take  me  to  a  woman's 
house,  where  I  should  be  taken  care  of,  and  marry  me 
in  the  morning.  I  told  you  every  word.  He  was  to 
have  the  license  in  his  pocket,  and  it  was  to  be  at  a 
church  in  the  city.  There  he  is,  there  he  stands ! 
That 's  Stephen  Mitford,  that  was  to  be  my  husband, 
but  never  meant  it :  that 's  the  man  that  is  turning 
out  my  father  and  mother,  and  threatening  the  police 
to  them,  because  I  escaped  away  from  him  out  into 
the  streets !  Rather  the  streets  than  him !  Rather 
anything  in  all  the  world  than  him !  " 

"  It 's  a  lie  ! "  retorted  Stephen,  forgetting  all  bis 
precautions.  "  Hold  your  tongue !  How  dare  you 
speak  ?  It 's  a  lie  !  " 

"  Lily !  "  cried  Elizabeth.  "Oh,  Lily  !  What  are 
you  saying?  "  She  had  uttered  a  cry  and  started  up 
at  the  first  words  of  this  strange  revelation  ;  and  with- 
out looking  at  Edmund  she  put  out  her  hand  to  him, 
saying,  "  Edmund,  forgive  —  forgive  me !  "  as  Lily 
went  on. 

"  He  knows  it 's  all  true  !  "  the  girl  cried,  pointing 
to  Stephen.  "  He  used  to  meet  me  in  the  park,  and 
he  offered  to  marry  me.  He  said  Not  church,  church 
was  of  no  consequence,  —  a  registrar's  office ;  but  I 
said  No,  the  church  or  nothing  ;  and  he  was  to  get 
the  license  for  a  church  in  the  city,  and  all  straight- 
forward, and  to  take  me  to  a  good  woman's.  But 


458  THE   SECOND  SON. 

there  was  no  woman,  and  he  had  said  I  was  his  wife. 
Then  I  opened  the  door  and  ran  out  into  the  streets ; 
and  I  walked,  and  walked,  and  walked,  till  I  was  like 
to  drop,  till  the  morning ;  and  then  I  got  to  the  rail- 
way, where  there  was  a  woman,  and  slept  all  day ;  and 
there  you  found  me.  I  told  you  all  the  story,  every 
word,  except  his  name.  And  there  he  stands,  —  Ste- 
phen Mitford.  Oh,  I  have  good  cause  to  know  his 
name ! " 

"  The  girl  is  mad  !  "  Stephen  cried.  "  It 's  a  lie  ! 
She  means  my  brother.  My  brother  would  have  mar- 
ried her.  He  was  a  fool.  It  was  Roger;  it  was 
not  I." 

"  What 's  all  this  about  ?  "  blustered  the  Squire. 
He  had  sprung  up,  too,  from  his  seat.  "  He 's  right, 
Miss  Travers.  This  girl,  confound  her  !  —  my  poor 
boy  wanted  to  marry  her.  She  had  —  she  had  —  got 
over  him.  somehow.  It 's  true,  Roger  wanted  to 
marry  her.  Stephen  was  never  in  it.  Stephen  is  not 
that  sort !  "  Mr.  Mitford  laughed  in  a  wild  way,  with 
an  indignant  braggadocio,  ready  to  boast  of  his  son's 
want  of  virtue.  *'  He  's  not  a  —  he  's  not  one  of  the 
innocent  ones.  He  is  up  to  most  things  !  " 

"  Lily,  my  child,  —  Lily,  come  here,"  cried  Mrs. 
Travers.  "  Oh,  dear,  dear  !  To  hear  that  about  her 
father  has  quite  upset  her.  Lily,  come  here,  —  come 
here." 

Lily  obeyed  the  call.  She  was  very  docile,  though 
trembling  with  passion  ;  and  in  that  stirring  up  of  all 
her  being,  she  was  glad  of  some  one  to  cling  to,  some 
one  to  lean  upon.  She  obeyed  the  movement  of  the 
old  lady's  hand,  and  went  and  stood  behind  her  chair. 
The  others  were  all  standing  up,  gazing  at  each 
other.  Elizabeth,  in  her  compunction  and  astonish- 


A   REVELATION.  459 

ment,  had  put  her  hand  suddenly  into  Edmund's,  not 
knowing  what  she  did,  calling  him  by  his  name ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  wonderful  commotion  which  this 
involuntary  act  roused  in  him,  he  had  said  or  done 
nothing  save  hold  that  hand  firmly  in  his,  not  at- 
tempting to  interrupt  the  strain  of  a  stronger  in- 
terest, the  question  now  raised  between  his  father  and 
brother,  between  whom  a  whole  tragedy  lay.  As  if  a 
magnet  had  drawn  them,  they  both  followed  Lily's 
movements  with  their  eyes  ;  as  if  her  change  of  po- 
sition could  impart  something  new  to  the  startling 
tale. 

"  Speak  up,  man  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  growing  grad- 
ually excited.  "  Don't  leave  me  to  answer  for  you,  — 
you  've  a  big  enough  voice  when  you  please.  Take 
your  oath  to  it !  Are  you  going  to  let  them  believe 
that  —  that  lie  ?  " 

"  That 's  what  it  is,"  answered  Stephen.  His  voice 
was  big  enough,  but  there  was  something  hollow  in 
it.  "  It  is  a  lie.  I  've  said  so.  You  see  she  can't 
face  me  and  say  it  again  !  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Lily,  leaning  over  her  friend's  chair, 
over  the  head  of  the  little  old  lady,  who  looked  like 
some  curious  white-and-black  bird  with  eager  little 
sparkling  eyes,  "  I  have  but  one  word.  I  can't  vary 
it.  Mr.  Roger,  —  oh  !  he  was  too  good  ;  he  spoke  to 
me  as  if  I  had  been  the  highest  lady  in  the  land.  But 
Stephen  made  me  leave  my  home;  he  said  we  were  to 
be  married,  and  he  would  get  a  license ;  it  was  to  be 
in  a  church  in  the  city."  Lily  went  over  those  de- 
tails again  with  a  monotony  of  repetition,  as  she  had 
gone  over  and  over  them  in  her  mind  in  circles  of 
confused  and  miserable  thinkings.  "  I  trusted  him, 
and  I  went  to  him,  but  he  never  meant  it.  When  I 


460  THE   SECOND  SON. 

saw  how  it  was —  Oh,  ask  him;  he  will  tell  you!  " 
she  cried,  suddenly  turning  upon  her  former  lover. 
"Ask  him,  look  at  him!  Can't  you  see  it  in  his 
face  ?  " 

"  You  liar !  "  he  cried,  hoarse  with  passion  ;  "  you 
jilt,  you  little  devil !  The  streets,  —  that  was  where 
she  came  from,  where  she  belonged  !  Yes,  I  '11  take 
my  oath  !  I  tell  you  it 's  an  infernal  lie !  " 

"  I  walked  about  the  streets  all  night.  God  pro- 
tected me,"  said  Lily.  "  It  was  like  the  dead  walk- 
ing, but  I  was  safe  there  from  him.  I  told  Miss 
Travers  every  word,  but  not  who  he  was.  I  would 
have  spared  him,  if  he  had  spared  my  father  and 
mother.  For  he  did  me  no  harm,  only  a  night  in  the 
streets ;  an  awful  night,  on  my  feet,  walking  all  the 
time,  but  that 's  all.  He  did  me  no  harm  !  " 

Stephen  looked  as  a  bully  looks  when  he  is  beaten 
down  and  can  brag  no  more.  "  I  took  her  from  the 
streets,  —  that 's  what  she  means.  I  would  n't  go 
after  her  there,  —  that's  what  has  made  her  mad. 
She  's  a  liar,  —  she  'sad  —  d  "  — 

Mr.  Mitford  raised  his  stick,  and  made  as  if  he 
would  have  struck  his  son  on  the  mouth.  His  own 
forehead  and  cheeks  were  purple.  He  tried  to  speak, 
and  the  foam  flew  from  his  mouth  like  spray.  "  You 
hound  !  "  he  cried.  "  Do  you  know  there  are  ladies 
here?  D — you,  you  make  me  forget  it!  "  He  struck 
his  stick  upon  the  ground  in  his  passion,  and  snapped 
it  as  if  it  had  been  glass.  "  Enticed  the  girl  like  a 
villain  and  lost  her  like  a  fool !  I  'm  glad  my  stick  's 
broken,  or  I  'd  have  struck  him.  Don't  speak  to  me, 
—  don't  speak  to  me.  Get  out  of  my  way,  sir.  I  'm 
going  home." 


A   REVELATION.  461 

They  all  stood  staring,  accused  and  accuser  together, 
while  the  father,  stammering,  maddened,  pushing  every- 
thing, furniture  and  persons,  wildly  from  him,  turned 
round,  clearing  the  way  with  the  broken  end  of  his 
stick,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 


XLIII. 
THE  CULPRIT'S  REVENGE. 

THEY  were  left,  —  as  the  exit  of  an  important  ac- 
tor in  a  stirring  scene  leaves  the  rest  of  the  parties  to 
it,  in  an  enforced  pause  before  the  movement  can  be 
resumed,  at  watch  upon  each  other,  distracted  for  the 
moment,  each  antagonist  a  little  astray,  not  knowing 
how  the  debate  is  to  be  resumed,  and  against  which 
of  the  adversaries  he  is  to  find  himself  engaged.  To 
Stephen  it  was  a  moment  of  relief.  Among  the  oth- 
ers, there  seemed  no  one  whom  he  could  not  cow  by 
his  louder  voice  and  stronger  denial.  It  appeared  to 
him  that  he  could  crush  that  slight  creature  standing 
opposite  by  the  mere  lifting  of  his  hand.  But  for  the 
moment  he  did  not  know  whether  it  were  she  or  some 
other  against  whom  he  would  have  to  stand. 

"  Dear,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  leaning  back  a 
little  upon  Lily,  who  stood  behind  her.  The  old  lady 
was  frightened,  flurried,  horror-stricken.  "  Oh  dear, 
dear !  "  she  cried,  wringing  her  little  transparent 
hands.  "I  knew  there  was  something,  but  I  never 
knew  how  bad  it  was.  Oh  dear,  dear  !  —  oh  dear, 
dear !  " 

"  Stephen,"  said  Edmund,  "  I  think  we  had  better 
follow  my  father.  After  what  has  passed,  it  can  do 
you  no  good  to  stay  here." 

"  After  what  has  passed  !  What  has  passed  ?  The 
story  of  a  —  of  a  —  the  sort  of  creature  no  man  is  safe 


THE  CULPRIT'S  REVENGE.  463 

from.  It  might  have  been  you  instead  of  me.  Would 
you  slink  off,  and  let  her  have  it  all  her  own  way  ? 
I  '11  appeal  to  Mrs.  Travers.  You  know  what  the 
world  is :  will  you  trust  that  woman  against  me,  —  a 
girl  that  has  nothing  to  lose  against  "  — 

"Oh,  hush  !  "  interposed  Elizabeth;  "  for  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  go  any  further,  —  there  has  been  enough. 
Oh,  get  your  brother  to  go  away  !  We  do  trust  her, 
—  we  know  her  better  than  we  know  him.  Oh,  get 
him  to  go  away  !  " 

"  Dear,  dear !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Travers,  "  oh  dear, 
dear !  I  can't  bear  this  sort  of  thing,  Elizabeth.  He  's 
a  gentleman,  a  military  man.  And  don't  you  hear 
him  ?  He  appeals  to  me.  Lily  may  have  been  mis- 
taken ;  he  may  be  able  to  explain.  Oh  dear,  dear ! 
Mr.  Mitford  will  have  a  fit,  and  it  will  kill  me.  To 
have  such  a  disturbance  and  such  things  talked  of  in 
a  lady's  house,  —  oh  dear,  oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  " 

"  Let  me  alone,  Ned,"  cried  Stephen ;  "  it 's  my 
character,  not  yours,  that  is  at  stake."  He  straight- 
ened himself,  and  looked  round  him  with  rising  cour- 
age. "  You  say  true,"  he  continued  ;  "  Mrs.  Travers, 
you  understand.  How  am  I  to  explain  before  ladies  ? 
Things  look  dreadful  to  ladies  that  are  no  harm 
among  men.  If  you  will  get  Miss  Travers  to  go 
away,  and  that  girl,  I  will  tell  you  all  I  can.  I  '11  ex- 
plain as  well  as  I  can  —  to  you  "  — 

"  To  me  !  "  interrupted  the  old  lady,  with  a  subdued 
shriek,  —  "  explain  improprieties  to  me  !  Lizzy,  he 
ought  n't  to  be  allowed  to  talk  to  me  like  this.  Un- 
less she  has  made  a  mistake  —  Oh,  don't  be  too  hasty, 
my  dear  !  Are  you  sure,  are  you  quite  sure,  it 's  the 
same  gentleman  ?  Oh,  Lily,  look  again ;  you  might 
be  mistaking  him  for  some  one  else.  Are  you  sure  it 


464  THE   SECOND  SON. 

is  the  same  gentleman,  Lily  ?  If  it  was  the  right  one, 
do  you  think  he  'd  appeal  to  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  man  whom  I  was  going  to  marry,"  re- 
turned Lily,  drooping  her  head.  "  How  could  I  make 
a  mistake  as  to  him  ?  " 

"  That  was  my  brother  Roger,"  said  Stephen,  "  as 
is  well  known.  Why  she  should  wish  to  ruin  me  in 
your  opinion,  I  can't  tell.  She  came  up  to  London  to 
Roger.  What  happened  to  her  there,  who  knows  ?  " 
he  added,  with  an  insulting  laugh.  "  Perhaps  it 's 
natural  she  should  seek  out  some  one  to  answer  for 
that  adventure,  —  I  should  n't  blame  her.  It 's  fair 
enough  to  do  what  you  can  in  self-defense." 

"  Let  my  brother  Roger's  name  be  left  out  of  this," 
said  Edmund,  sternly.  "  Say  what  you  will  for  your- 
self. She  never  went  to  London  to  Roger.  He  was 
as  delicate  and  tender  of  her  and  her  good  name  as  if 
she  had  been  the  Queen's  daughter.  Keep  his  name 
out  of  it.  I  cannot  allow  any  reference  to  him." 

Mrs.  Travers  sat  up  erect  in  her  chair,  and  looked 
at  Stephen  with  her  small,  keen  eyes.  "  They  are  not 
like  each  other,"  she  said ;  "  and  how  could  she  mis- 
take the  man  she  was  going  to  marry,  as  she  says  ? 
Captain  Mitford,  I  think  you  had  better  go  away  ?  I 
am  very  sorry,  for  I  have  a  partiality  for  military 
men,  but  I  don't  really  see  how  there  could  be  any 
mistake.  And  you  must  n't  speak  about  the  girl  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  We  know  her,  as  Elizabeth  has 
told  -you,  a  great  deal  better  than  we  know  you." 

Stephen  looked  round  upon  the  audience,  which  he 
began  to  perceive  was  hostile  to  him,  with  lessening 
self-command  and  growing  wrath.  His  father's  de- 
parture had  sobered  him  out  of  the  first  burst  of  pas- 
sion, but  he  was  not  a  man  to  fight  a  losing  battle. 


THE  CULPRIT'S  REVENGE.  465 

He  went  on,  however,  repeating  his  plea.  "  I  can't 
go  into  it  now,  before  ladies.  Name  a  man,  and  I  '11 
explain  everything.  I  can't  speak  before  ladies.  A 
man  would  soon  see  it  was  all  a  made-up  story.  Send 
for  old  Gavelkind  or  somebody.  I  '11  explain  to  a 
man." 

"  You  are  not  on  your  trial  here,  Captain  Mitford," 
remarked  Elizabeth.  "  We  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  It  has  been  all  very  unexpected  and  very  painful." 
She  turned  to  Edmund  with  an  appealing  gesture, 
"  It  would  be  much  better  if  it  could  end  here.  There 
is  nothing  more  for  us  to  do ;  it  is  no  business  of 
ours." 

"  That  is  to  say,"  cried  Stephen  quickly,  "  I  am  to 
consent  to  a  slur  upon  my  character  because  there  is  n't 
a  man  in  the  house  to  whom  I  can  speak,  nor  any  one 
who  can  see  through  a  made-up  story.  I  shan't  do 
that !  Send  that  little  devil  away,  and  not  me.  You 
can't  know  her  half  so  well  as  I  know  her.  How 
should  you  ?  She  puts  on  one  face  to  her  backers-up, 
but  quite  a  different  one  to  me.  She  's  "  — 

"  Captain  Mitford,"  Mrs.  Travel's  said,  "  you  seem 
to  think,  after  all,  that  you  know  Lily  very  well." 

He  stopped  short,  confounded,  and  looked  at  the  old 
lady  with  a  dangerous  glitter  in  his  eyes  —  like  a  bull 
putting  down  its  head  before  it  charges. 

"You  think  you  know  Lily  very  well,"  she  re- 
peated ;  "  and  how  should  you  know  her,  unless  what 
she  says  is  true  ?  I  'm  very  sorry,  for  you  are  a  near 
neighbor,  and  I  always  thought  I  should  like  you  best 
of  the  family.  If  you  please,  Captain  Mitford,  will 
you  go  away  ?  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings, 
but  there  's  no  man  in  the  house,  as  you  say.  We 
are  only  ladies ;  we  have  ourselves  to  take  care  of. 


466  THE  SECOND  SON. 

Please  go.  And  I  don't  think,"  added  the  old  lady, 
upon  whose  face  there  had  come  a  little  color,  a  flush 
of  roused  temper  and  feeling,  "  that  so  long  as  this 
is  my  house  I  shall  want  to  see  you  here  again." 

He  burst  out  suddenly  into  a  loud  laugh.  He  was 
exasperated  by  her  little  air  of  authority,  her  precise 
words,  the  majestic  aspect  she  put  on,  and  he  was  half 
mad  with  the  efforts  he  had  made  to  restrain  himself, 
and  the  sense  that  he  had  failed,  and  the  fury  and 
shame  of  the  exposure.  No  one  had  listened  to  what 
he  said  in  his  own  defense  ;  but  he  had  it  in  his  power 
to  startle  them  into  listening  to  him  at  last.  "  Your 
house  ?  "  he  cried,  hurling  the  words  at  her  as  if  they 
had  been  a  stone  picked  up  in  haste.  "  You  've  no 
house,  any  more  than  you  have  the  right  to  judge 
me!" 

"  No  house  !  The  man  must  be  going  mad  !  "  Mrs. 
Travers  exclaimed. 

"  Captain  Mitford,"  cried  Elizabeth,  "  if  you  have 
any  sense  of  honor,  go,  —  go  away !  " 

"  I  '11  not  allow  myself  to  be  insulted,"  he  returned, 
"  not  even  by  an  old  woman.  Her  house !  It 's  no 
more  hers  than  it 's  mine.  She 's  got  no  house,  —  she 
has  not  a  penny  but  what  you  give  her.  Do  you  think 
I  don't  know  ?  Do  you  think  that  everybody  does  n't 
know  ?  Let  go,  Ned.  I  '11  not  be  put  out,  either  by 
her  or  you.  By  Jove  !  to  order  me  out  of  her  house, 
when  she 's  a  pauper,  a  pensioner,  a  —  Good-evening, 
Mrs.  Travers.  I  hope  I  've  given  you  a  piece  of  in- 
formation which  is  as  good  as  yours  to  me  !  " 

The  little  old  lady  had  risen  to  her  feet.  It  was 
not  possible  for  the  small,  worn  face  in  the  white  cir- 
cle of  her  widow's  qap  to  be  paler  than  it  habitually 
was ;  but  her  eyes  were  opened  more  widely  than 


THE   CULPRIT'S  REVENGE.  467 

usual,  and  her  lips  were  apart.  "  Lizzy !  "  she  said, 
with  a  gasp,  putting  out  her  hands.  She  paused 
until  Stephen  had  gone  out  of  the  room  before  she 
said  any  more.  Then  she  resumed  :  •'  Lizzy !  Is  that 
true  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Travers,"  replied  Edmund,  "  my  brother  is 
entirely  in  the  wrong.  He  has  received  a  dreadful 
blow.  I  am  dazed  and  confused  by  it,  though  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was 
saying.  He  wanted  to  revenge  himself  on  some  one. 
It  was  a  dastardly  thing  to  do ;  but  that  is  all.  Don't 
think  of  it  more." 

"  I  am  asking  Lizzy.  Lizzy,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  is 
that  true  ?  " 

"  Aunt,  listen  to  him,  he  knows  everything,  and 
We  've  done  him  injustice  !  "  cried  Elizabeth,  \vdth  an 
effort,  scarcely  conscious,  to  turn  the  discussion  into 
another  channel.  "  Ask  him  to  forgive  me.  I  thought 
he  was  involved  in  all  this  dreadful  story.  I  thought 
it  was  all  different." 

"  Lizzy,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  "  is  that  true  ?  " 

"  Aunt,  how  can  you  ask  me  ?  It  is  nothing ;  it  is 
revenge,  as  he  tells  you." 

"What  does  it  matter  what  he  tells  me,  or  the 
other  ?  The  other  meant  what  he  said.  Lizzy,  is  it 
true  ?  " 

"  Aunt,  dear  aunt !  " 

"  You  call  me  by  my  name,  but  that 's  no  answer  ; 
nor  is  it  an  answer,"  cried  the  old  lady,  holding  Eliz- 
abeth at  arm's  length,  thrusting  her  away,  "  to  come 
and  coax  me  and  kiss  me.  Is  it  true  —  true  ?  "  She 
grasped  Elizabeth's  shoulder  after  a  moment,  as  a 
child  might  grip  a  woman  in  vain  passion,  and  shook 
her.  "  I  want  an  answer,  —  I  want  an  answer.  My 


468  THE  SECOND  SON. 

husband  thought  it  right  to  leave  you  everything  — 
after  me  :  that 's  what  I  've  been  told,  and  I  thought 
it  was  hard.  Was  there  more  than  that  ?  I  '11  not  be 
deceived  any  longer ! "  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot. 
"  If  I  'm  a  pauper,  a  pensioner,  as  he  said,  tell  me. 
I  '11  not  be  deceived  any  more  !  " 

"  Oh,  aunt !    Never,  never  that !    Oh,  never  that !  " 

"  Never  what  ?  There  may  be  degrees  of  lies,  but 
there  can  be  but  one  truth.  What  ?  I  will  know  !  " 

"  Aunt,"  said  Elizabeth,  who  had  grown  very  pale, 
"  there  is  but  one  truth,  but  I  might  tell  that  truth  so 
that  it  would  be  almost  a  lie.  If  you  will  sit  down, 
and  have  patience,  and  let  me  explain  "  — 

"  Explain,  when  it 's  a  simple  matter  of  yes  or  no  ? 
Mr.  Edmund  Mitford,  this  is  between  my  niece  and 
me  ;  but  she  seems  to  wish  you  to  remain,"  Mrs.  Trav- 
ers  added,  querulously.  "  And  I  suppose  you  know, 
as  he  said  everybody  knows.  Oh,  that  Mr.  Gavel- 
kind  should  have  gone,  just  when  he  was  wanted !  " 
Mrs.  Travers  began  to  moan.  She  clasped  her  little 
attenuated  hands  together ;  tears  began  to  gather  in 
her  eyes.  "  Lily  Ford,"  she  said,  "  I  Ve  been  kind  to 
you,  I  Ve  asked  you  no  questions,  you  Ve  been  living 
in  my  house  —  In  my  house  ?  I  don't  know  if  I  have 
a  house.  Oh,  what  am  I  to  do  —  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 
She  sank  back  into  her  chair,  and  began  to  whimper 
and  cry.  "  I  was  his  faithful  wife  for  forty  years.  I 
brought  him  a  bit  of  money  that  was  of  great  use  to 
him  at  the  time.  I  was  never  extravagant,  —  never 
wanted  anything  that  he  was  n't  the  first  to  get !  The 
plate-glass  and  all  that,  —  was  it  my  doing  ?  I  never 
had  any  interest  but  his.  And  now  he  's  left  me  with- 
out a  home,  without  a  home,  after  being  his  wife  for 
forty  years ! " 


THE    CULPRIT'S  REVENGE.  469 

"  Oh,  dear  aunt,"  cried  Elizabeth,  flinging  herself 
on  her  knees  beside  Mrs.  Travers's  chair,  "  he  never 
thought  of  that.  You  were  like  himself  to  him.  It 
was  a  mistake,  it  was  some  delirium,  he  never 
thought." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  "  there 's  mistakes,  —  yes,  there 's 
mistakes.  You  asked  me,  Lily  Ford,  if  you  could  mis- 
take the  man  you  were  going  to  marry ;  and  it  seemed 
both  to  me  and  you  as  if  you  could  n't.  But  I  was 
married  to  mine  for  forty  years,  and  I  was  mistaken 
in  him  all  the  time,  it  appears.  I  never  thought  he 
would  leave  his  wife  a  —  a  pauper,  a  pensioner,  as 
that  villain  said.  Oh,  that  villain !  Get  up,  Eliza- 
beth, get  up ;  don't  hang  on  me.  I  '11  be  your  pen- 
sioner no  more." 

Elizabeth,  repulsed,  still  knelt  at  her  aunt's  feet, 
her  hands  clasped,  the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes. 
Lily  Ford,  behind  the  old  lady's  chair,  put  her  arms 
timidly  round  her,  caressing  her,  crying  too.  Beside 
all  these  weeping  women,  what  could  Edmund  do? 
He  stood  irresolute  in  sheer  masculine  disability  to 
bear  the  sight  of  their  tears :  and  yet  he  could  not  go 
away,  nor  desert  Elizabeth  at  this  crisis.  Not  a  word 
had  been  said  between  them,  and  yet  she  had  called 
him,  bound  him  to  her  side.  He  turned  from  them, 
and  walked  about  the  room  in  the  confusion  of  de- 
spair. 

"  That 's  what  marriage  is,"  Mrs.  Travers  resumed 
after  an  interval  of  sobs.  "  I  '11  go  out  of  my  hus- 
band's house  with  the  little  bit  of  money  I  brought 
into  it,  and  glad  to  have  that.  It  was  all  mine  for 
forty  years  ;  but  what  was  I  all  the  time  ?  What 's  a 
wife  but  a  pensioner,  as  that  man  said.  She  has  no 
right  to  anything  ;  it 's  all  in  the  man's  hands,  though 


470  THE  SECOND  SON. 

she  's  helped  him  to  make  it,  though  she 's  taken  care 
of  it  aiid  saved  it,  and  done  her  work  as  honest  as  he. 
But  when  he  dies,  lie  does  what  he  likes  ;  he  takes  her 
home  from  her,  and  gives  it  to  some  one  else.  She  's 
got  no  right  to  anything.  Oh,  talk  of  mistakes,  Lily 
Ford !  You  might  well  mistake  the  man  you  were 
going  to  marry,  when  I  've  mistaken  mine,  after  I  've 
been  his  wife  for  forty  years." 

"  Aunt,"  Elizabeth  cried,  "  have  some  pity  upon 
me !  You  cannot  have  the  heart  to  leave  me !  I 
would  have  died  rather  than  let  you  find  out  —  any- 
thing to  wound  you.  Every  word  you  say  goes  to  my 
heart.  It 's  all  true  ;  but  he  never  meant  it  so.  He 
never,  never  meant  it.  It 's  true,  and  yet  it 's  not 
true.  And  why  should  you  punish  me  ?  What  have 
I  done  ?  Will  you  leave  me  alone  in  the  world,  in  a 
house  that 's  no  longer  a  home,  because  I  have  been 
put  in  a  wrong  position,  and  because  his  mind  got  con- 
fused at  the  end  ?  " 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Mrs.  Travers  angrily, 
turning  sharply  upon  her.  "  Don't  say  a  word  against 
my  husband  to  me.  I  know  what  I  think ;  but  it 's 
not  for  you  to  say  it,  —  you  that  he  was  always  so 
good  to.  Respect  your  unole,  if  you  please.  You 
shall  not  say  a  word  against  him  to  me.  And  as  for 
leaving  you,  why.  what 's  this  young  man  here  for, 
Lizzy  ?  He  wants  to  go  away,  he  has  feeling  enough 
to  see  he  has  no  business  here  ;,but  you  won't  let  him  ; 
you  keep  him  with  your  eye.  I  suppose  you  '11  marry 
him,  and  then  you  '11  want  nobody,  —  there  will  be  no 
further  need  for  an  old  woman  ;  though  perhaps  she  is 
wanted,  enough  to  earn  her  living,  enough  not  to  be  a 
pauper,"  Mrs.  Travers  said,  drying  her  eyes  indig- 
nantly. 


THE   CULPRIT'S  REVENGE.  471 

"  I  must  speak,  if  I  am  to  be  here  at  all,"  said  Ed- 
mund, coming  forward  ;  "let  me  be  of  some  use  now, 
at  least.  You  are  all  excited,  —  too  much  excited  to 
decide  anything.  If  Elizabeth  will  have  me,  I  have 
been  long  at  her  disposal,  Mrs.  Travers  ;  and  in  that 
case  I  can  speak  for  her  as  well  as  for  myself.  This 
house  will  never,  by  my  consent,  be  anybody's  but 
yours.  She  will  never  live  in  it,  with  my  approval, 
except  as  your  daughter  should  live.  It  is  better  this 
should  be  cleared  up,  perhaps,  and  that  we  should  all 
understand  each  other.  You  shall  never  leave  here 
with  my  consent.  I  can't  but  be  of  some  importance, 
if  what  you  think  is  true.  All  the  rest  is  little,  and 
means  nothing.  These  are  the  facts  of  the  case  :  you 
are  here  at  home,  and  Elizabeth  liyes  with  you. 
What  is  to  happen  after  shall  be  arranged  between 
us,  —  you,  as  the  head  of  the  house,  having  the  first 
voice.  I  know  nothing  about  wills  and  law;  in  na- 
ture you  are  the  head  of  the  house  and  the  mistress  of 
the  house,  and  so  you  shall  always  be  for  me." 

When  a  man  speaks  words  of  wisdom,  it  is  very 
seldom  that  they  are  not  received  by  the  women  about 
him  as  oracles  fi'om  Heaven.  Elizabeth  rose  from  her 
knees,  and  came  and  stood  by  his  side,  putting  her 
arm  into  his  with  a  timidity  unusual  to  her.  Mrs. 
Travers  sat  up  in  her  chair,  with  her  face  raised  to 
him,  in  attention,  half  bewildered  but  wholly  respect- 
ful. Even  Lily  Ford,  behind  the  old  lady's  chair, 
looked  up  as  if  her  Salvation  depended  upon  this 
supreme  and  serious  statement.  When  he  stopped, 
there  was  a  breathless  pause. 

"  Well,  if  it 's  any  satisfaction  to  you,  Lizzy,  I 
think  he  speaks  up  like  a  man,"  Mrs.  Travers  said. 


XLIV. 

THE   SQUIRE   GOES   HOME. 

THE  Squire  went  out  of  the  house  like  a  man  dis- 
tracted, his  brain  on  fire,  a  surging  as  of  a  flood  in  his 
head.  He  passed  out  into  the  hot  sun,  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  feeling  the  rush  in  his  ears  too  hot  and 
terrible  to  permit  of  any  covering  upon  the  temples, 
which  throbbed  as  if  they  would  burst.  Very  few 
times  in  his  life  had  it  happened  to  him  that  the  fiery 
commotion  within  dazed  and  confused  him  as  to  what 
was  going  on  without,  but  so  it  was  to-day. 

He  had  been  without  any  premonition  of  trouble, 
when  he  climbed  that  slope  with  Stephen.  He  was 
going  to  smooth  over  all  offense  on  Elizabeth's  part. 
Stephen  was  to  tell  his  tale,  to  explain,  as  he  seemed 
convinced  he  could.  "  Let  me  alone.  I  hope  I  know 
how  to  talk  over  a  woman,"  he  had  said.  Mr.  Mit- 
ford  had  been  such  a  fool  as  to  trust  to  him.  Such  a 
fool !  he  said  to  himself  now.  As  if  Elizabeth  had 
been  an  ordinary  woman,  as  if  the  circumstances  had 
been  so  simple  !  The  Squire  could  not  imagine  how 
he  had  been  such  a  fool,  forgetting  that  he  had  known 
none  of  the  circumstances.  Now  it  seemed  as  if  his 
own  folly  were  the  thing  most  apparent.  How  could 
he  think  that  it  would  be  so  easily  disposed  of !  How 
could  he  imagine  that  all  would  be  well ! 

Mr.  Mitford  was  not  a  severe  judge.  He  had,  per- 
haps, in  his  heart  more  sympathy  with  Stephen's  er- 


THE  SQUIRE   GOES  HOME-  473 

rors  than  with  the  virtue  of  his  other  sons.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  make  any  fuss  about  a  little  irregularity, 
about  what  had  been  called  youthful  folly  in  the  days 
when  he  was  himself  subject  to  such  temptations ;  so 
long  as  there  was  nothing  disgraceful  in  it,  he  had 
said.  But  a  girl  upon  his  property,  the  daughter  of 
an  old  servant,  his  wife's  favorite,  —  nay,  good  heav- 
ens !  the  girl  whom  Roger  had  meant  to  marry ! 
Was  there  ever  such  a  hideous  combination  ?  To  en- 
tice that  girl  away  on  the  old  pretense  of  marriage, 
what  a  scoundrel !  and  to  let  her  slip  through  his  fin- 
gers, what  a  fool !  Everything  that  was  most  unbear- 
able was  involved  in  it.  It  would  be  over  the  whole 
county  to-morrow,  flying  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  — 
a  scandal  such  as  had  not  happened  for  a  generation, 
and  ridicule  worse  still  than  the  scandal.  It  was  like 
a  Surrey  melodrama,  the  Squire  said  to  himself, 
crossed  with  a  screaming  farce.  To  have  meant  to 
outwit  the  girl,  and  to  have  found  her  too  sharp  for 
him !  A  Lovelace  plante-la  !  a  brilliant  and  conquer- 
ing hero,  made  a  fool  of,  like  the  old  nincompoop  in 
the  plays.  Jove !  and  this  was  his  son !  And  the 
scandal  and  the  derision,  the  county  talk,  the  shaking 
of  the  wise  heads,  the  roar  of  ridicule,  would  peal 
round  the  house,  like  a  storm.  The  laughter,  that  was 
the  worst.  Had  Lily  been  altogether  lost,  Mr.  Mit- 
f  ord  would  have  been  perhaps  not  much  less  disturbed  : 
he  would  have  felt  keenly  the  shame  of  such  a  scandal, 
the  noisy  echoes  awakened,  the  shock  of  that  overthrow 
of  all  the  decorums  and  betrayal  of  all  those  trusts 
which  an  old  servant  puts  in  his  master,  and  which 
public  feeling  protects  and  authorizes.  But  that  the 
laugh  should  be  added  to  the  shame ;  that  when  peo- 
ple heard  what  villainy  Stephen  had  been  about,  they 


474  THE  SECOND  SON. 

should  also  hear  how  the  tables  had  been  turned  upon 
him,  how  the  biter  had  been  bit  and  the  deceiver  de- 
ceived, —  that  was  more  unbearable  still !  The  echoes 
seemed  all  to  catch  it  up,  to  breathe  it  about  him,  to 
come  back  laden  with  derision  and  scorn.  Stephen, 
who  had  been  admired  in  the  county,  who  had  a  repu- 
tation as  a  dashing-  fellow,  of  whom  his  father  had  been 
proud !  Proud !  Jove !  there  was  not  much  to  be 
proud  of  :  a  base,  abominable  seduction,  and  not  even 
a  successful  one,  the  laugh  turned  against  him,  the 
victim  holding  him  up  to  shame.  If  everything  had 
been  put  together  that  could  most  humiliate  and  ex- 
pose the  family,  —  just  on  the  edge  of  a  family  afflic- 
tion, too,  when  decorum  ought  to  have  the  strongest 
hold,  —  it  could  not  have  been  more  thoroughly  done  ! 
It  was  a  very  hot  day,  the  very  height  and  crown 
of  summer,  and  the  road  between  Mount  Travers  and 
Melcombe  was  for  a  great  part  of  the  way  quite  un- 
shaded, exposed  to  the  full  beating  of  the  afternoon 
sun.  It  was  afternoon,  but  the  sun  was  still  high  in 
the  heavens,  and  the  air  was  penetrated  by  the  fierce- 
ness of  its  shining.  Three  o'clock  is  almost  more  than 
the  climax  of  day ;  it  has  the  meridian  heat,  with  an 
accumulation  of  all  the  fiery  elements  stored  up  in 
every  corner  and  in  the  motionless  air,  which  has  not 
yet  been  freed  from  the  spell  of  noon.  After  a  while, 
Mr.  Mitford  put  on  his  hat  mechanically,  to  interpose 
something  between  him  and  that  glow  of  heat  and 
brightness.  The  waves  of  the  flood  of  passion,  of 
coursing  blood  and  heat,  rose  one  after  another,  ring- 
ing and  surging  in  his  ears.  He  knew  what  his  doc- 
tor had  told  him  about  that  overwhelming  sensation, 
—  that  he  ought  to  get  into  the  cool,  into  a  darkened 
room,  and  lie  down  and  keep  quiet,  when  he  felt  it. 


THE  SQUIRE   GOES  HOME.  475 

None  of  these  things  could  he  do  now.  This  rushing 
along  in  the  full  sun,  with  his  head  uncovered  for  part 
of  the  way,  no  shade,  no  possibility  of  rest,  and  some 
miles  of  blazing  road  before  him,  was  enough  to  have 
given  Dr.  Robson  a  fit,  not  to  speak  of  the  patient, 
whom  he  had  warned  so  seriously.  The  Squire  felt 
this  dully  in  his  confused  brain,  but  also  felt  that  he 
could  not  help  it ;  that  everything  was  intolerable  ; 
that  he  must  get  home,  and  do  something  at  once. 
He  must  do  it  at  once ;  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  A 
fellow  who  had  exposed  himself  to  the  county,  to  the 
whole  world,  like  that,  could  not  be  permitted  to  be 
the  representative  of  the  Mitfords.  He  had  always 
felt  uncomfortable  about  it,  always  since  poor  Roger 
was  taken  away.  Poor  Roger!  It  seemed  to  the 
Squire  that  only  death  had  taken  his  eldest  son  away, 
and  that  it  was  somehow  a  grievance  to  himself  that 
Stephen  had  been  put  in  that  eldest  son's  place ;  he 
could  not  make  out,  in  his  confusion,  how  it  had  come 
about.  It  was  a  wrong  to  Edmund,  —  he  had  always 
said  so,  —  a  great  injustice,  an  injury,  a  —  And  now 
the  fellow  had  proved  how  impossible  it  was  to  keep 
up  such  an  arrangement.  It  was  all  his  own  doing, 
as  somehow  the  other,  the  injury  to  Edmund,  appeared 
to  be  Stephen's  doing.  But  the  Squire  felt  that  if  he 
could  only  get  home  in  time,  only  reach  his  writing- 
table  and  his  quiet  library  and  the  cool  and  the  shade, 
and  get  his  pulses  to  stop  beating,  and  that  rushing 
surge  out  of  his  ears,  things  might  still  be  put  right. 

But  the  road  stretched  out  white  before  him,  like 
something  elastic,  drawing  out  and  out  in  endless 
lengths,  such  as  he  had  never  been  conscious  of  be- 
fore ;  and  the  sun  blazed,  without  a  tree  to  subdue  that 
pitiless  glare.  He  had  a  vague  notion  that  there  was 


476  THE  SECOND  SON. 

some  way  with  a  handkerchief  to  stop  the  beating  of 
the  light  upon  his  head,  but  his  thoughts  were  not  free 
enough  to  arrange  it,  or  think  how  it  could  be  done. 
And  still,  the  further  the  Squire  walked,  the  further 
and  further  before  him  seemed  to  stretch  on  these 
lengths  of  expanding  road.  If  he  could  but  get  home ! 
Presently  the  name  of  Pouncefort  surged  up  into  his 
head  on  these  rising  waves.  Pouncefort !  —  he  must 
send  for  Pouncefort :  by  an  express,  a  man  on  horse- 
back, in  the  old  way,  or  by  the  telegraph,  —  there  was 
the  telegraph.  Vaguely  it  came  into  his  mind  that  he 
might  stop  at  the  station  which  he  had  to  pass,  and 
send  a  message  ;  but  that  would  keep  him  longer, 
would  prevent  his  getting  home.  To  get  home  was 
his  first  necessity,  —  into  the  cool,  into  the  dark  with 
the  shutters  shut.  The  idea  of  shutting  the  shutters 
came  with  a  sense  of  relief  to  his  brain.  Somebody 
could  go  to  the  office  and  send  the  message  ;  or  a  man 
could  go,  on  horseback,  the  old  way. 

The  laughing-stock  of  the  county!  It  seemed  to 
him  now,  somehow,  as  if  it  were  he  who  would  be 
laughed  at,  he  who  had  been  outwitted,  though  with- 
out any  fault  of  his.  The  laugh  would  be  turned 
against  him  all  over  the  place,  who  had  meant  to  play 
the  gay  Lothario,  and  had  been  made  a  fool  of  by  a 
little  chit  of  a  girl !  Something  of  the  mortification 
and  rage  with  which  Stephen  himself  thought  of  that 
failure  entered  strangely  into  Ms  father's  brain,  but 
with  a  confused  sense  that  he  had  been  got  into  that 
position  without  any  fault  of  his ;  that  it  was  the  trick 
of  an  enemy  ;  that  he  had  been  made  to  appear  ridi- 
culous in  the  eyes  of  all  men,  by  something  with  which 
his  own  action  had  nothing  to  do.  He  seemed  to  hear 
the  ring  of  that  derision  all  about  him.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 


THE  SQUIRE   GOES  HOME.  477 

did  you  hear  that  story  about  Mitf  ord  ?  about  the  Mit- 
fords  ?  about  old  Mitford  ?  That  was  what  it  came  to 
at  the  last.  Old  Mitford  !  though  he  was  a  man  that 
had  never  made  a  laughing-stock  of  himself,  always 
kept  clear  of  that ;  had  been  respected,  feared,  if  you 
like ;  an  ugly  sort  of  fellow  to  be  affronted  or  put 
upon,  but  laughed  at,  never !  And  now  this  was  his 
fate,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  by  no  fault  of 
his. 

How  good  it  would  be  to  have  the  shutters  closed, 
all  along  the  side  of  the  house !  What  a  change  it 
would  make  all  at  once  !  —  out  of  that  beating  and 
blazing,  the  pitiless  heat,  the  sound  of  the  laughter ; 
for  somehow  the  laughter  appeared  to  come  in,  too. 
Meanwhile,  the  road  did  nothing  but  grow  longer  and 
longer,  stretching  out  like  a  long  white  line,  endless 
as  far  as  one  could  see,  not  diminishing,  extending  as 
one  rushed  on  ;  until  at  last,  when  the  heat  was  at  its 
highest,  the  sunshine  almost  blinding,  the  surging  in 
his  ears  worse  than  ever,  Mr.  Mitford  suddenly  found 
a  coolness  and  shelter  about  him,  and  saw  that  he  was 
stumbling  in  at  his  own  door. 

"  Shut  all  the  shutters,"  he  said  to  the  first  servant 
he  saw. 

"  The  shutters,  sir  ?  " 

"  Every  shutter  in  the  house.  Don't  you  see  how 
the  sun  is  blazing  ?  And  I  want  something  to  drink, 
and  a  horse  saddled  at  once." 

"  A  horse,  sir  ?  " 

"  Don't  I  speak  plain  enough  ?  Send  Larkins,  — 
he  11  understand ;  but  shut  the  shutters,  every  shutter ; 
keep  out  the  sun,  or  we  '11  go  on  fire,"  Mr.  Mitford 
said. 

Larkins  was  sought  out  in  the  housekeeper's  room, 


478  THE  SECOND  SON. 

with  a  message  that  master  had  come  in,  off  his  head, 
as  mad  as  mad,  calling  for  the  shutters  to  be  shut, 
and  for  a  horse.  The  butler  had  been  dozing  pleas- 
antly, and  was  just  waking  up  to  enjoy  his  afternoon 
tea. 

"  Rubbish,"  he  said.  "  I  dare  say  as  he  's  hot  with 
his  walk,  and  wants  a  drink  ;  they  allays  does,  when  a 
man  's  comfortable." 

But  M^*.  Larkins  was  not  an  ill-natured  man,  and 
he  had  a  sympathy  for  people  who  wanted  a  drink. 
He  sent  for  ice  and  various  bottles,  and  there  was  a 
popping  of  corks  which  occupied  some  time ;  and 
finally  he  took  in  himself  to  the  library  a  tray,  which 
the  footman  carried  to  the  door.  He  found,  what 
alarmed  even  his  composure,  his  master  tugging  at 
the  shutters  to  close  them,  though  the  sun  had  passed 
away  from  that  side  of  the  house. 

"  Bless  me,  sir,  let  me  do  that !  But  the  sun  's 
gone,"  he  said,  hurrying  to  set  down  his  tray. 

The  Squire  was  purple.  He  fumbled  about  the 
shutters  as  if  he  did  not  see,  his  eyes  seemed  starting 
out  of  his  head,  and  he  was  panting,  with  loud,  noisy 
breath.  "  Every  shutter,"  he  said,  "  or  we  '11  go  on 
fire ;  and,  Larkins,  have  a  horse  saddled,  and  send  a 
groom  "  — 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  please  leave  all  that  to  me,  and  take 
a  seat,  sir ;  you  're  rather  knocked  up  with  the  heat, 
and  I  've  brought  some  of  that  Cup." 

Larkins,  alarmed,  had  to  guide  his  master  to  his  big 
chair,  and  while  he  brought  him  a  large  glass  of  that 
skillful  decoction,  with  the  ice  jumbling  delightfully 
and  making  a  pleasant  noise,  he  resolved  within  him- 
self that  the  groom  should  go  for  Dr.  Kobson,  and  that 
without  a  moment's  delay. 


THE   SQUIRE   GOES  HOME.  479 

"  For  Pouncefort,  for  Pouncefort,"  said  the  Squire  ; 
"  a  man  on  horse,  the  quickest  way." 

"  If  I  were  to  send  a  telegram  ?  "  said  Larkins, 
more  and  more  decided  that  the  doctor  should  be  the 
groom's  errand. 

"  That 's  it,"  said  Mr.  Mitford.  and  he  took  a  deep 
and  long  draught ;  then  repeated,  "  The  shutters,  the 
shutters,  —  shut  the  shutters !  "  Larkins  moved  away 
to  humor  his  master.  But  his  back  was  scarcely 
turned  when  there  was  a  great  noise,  amid  which  the 
sharp  sound  of  the  glass  breaking  caught  the  butler's 
ear,  a  rumbling  as  when  a  tower  falls,  all  the  courses 
of  the  masonry  coming  down  upon  each  other ;  and 
there  lay  the  squire,  all  huddled  on  the  floor,  with  his 
purple  face  fallen  back,  and  his  breathing  like  the 
sound  of  a  swollen  stream. 

Stephen  left  Mount  Travers  as  hastily,  and  not 
much  more  pleasantly,  than  his  father.  The  thing 
had  come  upon  him  which,  with  horrible  premonitions 
of  shame  and  discomfiture,  he  had  feared,  ever  since 
that  night  when  his  victim,  at  the  moment  of  his 
triumph,  had  slipped  out  of  his  hands.  The  sensation 
had  been  almost  worse  than  he  had  imagined  it  would 
be.  The  sight  of  Lily  had  filled  him  with  a  rage 
which  he  felt  to  be  cowardly,  and  which  he  would  have 
resisted  had  he  known  how  to  do  so ;  a  desire  to  stran- 
gle her,  to  crush  her,  to  stop  that  explanation  by  any 
means,  however  brutal.  And  Elizabeth's  look  of  hor- 
ror, and  even  the  little  white  face  of  Mrs.  Travers, 
avowing  with  a  sigh  her  partiality  for  military  men, 
had  been  terrible  to  him.  But  after  the  shock  and 
sting  of  that  crisis,  there  came  to  Stephen  a  sense  of 
relief.  The  story  would  have  flown  to  all  the  winds, 


480  THE  SECOND  SON. 

if  but  one  of  the  fellows  in  the  regiment  had  been 
there,  or  any  man  who  could  communicate  to  them 
this  too  delightful  tale.  But  the  ladies  would  not 
spread  it  abroad,  —  they  were  too  much  horrified  ;  and 
the  Squire  and  Edmund  would  be  silent.  They  would 
know,  and  would  not  forget  the  story  of  his  disgrace, 
and  that  was  bad  enough  ;  but  they  would  not  tell  it. 
for  their  own  sake,  if  not  for  his.  Nor  would  she  re- 
peat it,  for  her  own  sake.  It  was  more  safe  than  he 
could  have  hoped ;  the  horrible  moment  of  the  disclos- 
ure had  come,  but  it  was  over,  and  nothing  was  so  bad 
as  he  had  feared.  True,  Elizabeth's  money  was  not 
for  him  ;  the  tramp  to  whom  he  threw  a  sixpence  was 
as  likely  now  to  be  received  as  a  wooer  as  he  was  ;  but 
what  then?  There  were  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as 
had  ever  been  drawn  out  of  it.  For  his  part,  he  had 
no  taste  for  such  women  ;  he  could  very  easily  make 
up  his  mind  to  the  loss  of  Elizabeth :  a  prim  woman, 
with  that  sanctimonious  horror  in  her  eyes,  she  was  no 
loss  at  all.  They  were  as  safe  an  audience  as  he  could 
have  chosen,  had  he  had  the  choosing  of  them.  Not 
one  of  them  would  repeat  it;  and  that,  not  for  Ste- 
phen's sake,  but  for  their  own.  And  to  console  him 
further,  he  had  the  comfort  of  having  revenged  him- 
self, which  was  sweet.  He  had  thrown  a  firebrand 
among  them,  for  them  to  extinguish  as  best  they 
could.  On  the  whole,  he  said  to  himself,  with  fierce 
exultation,  it  was  he  who  had  come  out  of  it  best. 

Therefore  his  excitement  calmed  down  more  easily 
than  his  father's.  There  remained  the  question  as  to 
what  the  Squire  would  do,  which  was  a  serious  one. 
He  had  been  furious  ;  he  had  taken  it  as  Stephen  him- 
self did,  with  rage  and  a  sense  of  the  mortification, 
the  failure,  the  horrible  ridicule  to  which  he  would  be 


THE  SQUIRE   GOES  HOME.  481 

exposed.  But  Stephen  hoped  that  he  might  make  his 
father  see  what  he  so  clearly  saw  himself  ;  this  shame- 
ful secret  had  been  revealed  to  the  most  harmless  au- 
dience that  could  have  been  chosen  ;  that  from  Mount 
Travers  it  was  very  unlikely  to  spread  or  be  repeated, 
or  even  whispered  about ;  that  the  ladies  would  not 
do  it,  nor  Edmund  ;  and  that  the  little  devil  herself, 
—  the  little  —  He  set  his  teeth  when  he  thought  of 
her.  He  would  like  to  meet  her  once  more,  only  once 
more,  in  the  park,  and  see  what  she  would  say  then. 

He  went  home  more  quickly  than  his  father  had 
done,  thinking  nothing  of  the  length  of  the  way,  nor 
of  the  heat,  nor  of  the  want  of  shade.  He  must  see 
what  temper  his  father  was  in ;  and  if  it  were  very 
bad,  he  would  pack  up  and  be  off.  Happily,  he  had 
not  sent  in  his  papers;  and  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  there  would  be  this  compensation  in  losing  his 
heirship,  —  that  he  should  no  longer  be  compelled  to 
remain  at  home.  There  was  always  that  to  be  said 
on  the  other  side.  He  met  a  groom  on  horseback, 
tearing  down  the  avenue,  but  paid  no  particular  atten- 
tion ;  nor  was  he  roused  by  the  scared  face  of  Lar- 
kins,  who  met  him  at  the  door.  He  thought,  indeed, 
that  Larkins  had  been  sent  to  warn  him  that  the 
Squire  would  not  see  him ;  but  this  alarm  lasted 
only  for  a  moment.  The  butler  looked  very  pale  and 
frightened.  He  came  forward  anxiously  as  soon  as 
Stephen  appeared. 

'•  I  'm  very  thankful  as  you  've  come,  sir.  I  did  n't 
know  how  to  act  on  my  own  responsibility.  Master  's 
not  at  all  well." 

"  Not  well  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?  "  Stephen  said. 

"  He  came  in  what  I  might  make  bold  to  call  very 
queer,  sir,  calling  out  to  shut  the  shutters,  to  keep  the 


482  THE  SECOND  SON. 

sun  out.  Now  the  sun  's  gone  from  the  library,  cap- 
tain, an  hour  ago,  as  you  know.  John  Thomas  was 
clean  scared,  and  caine  and  told  me  as  master  was  off 
his  head.  I  says,  '  Rubbish !  '  and  I  carries  him  in 
some  of  his  own  particular  Cup  as  he  's  fond  of.  He 
was  an  awful  color,  sir,  —  purple-like,  and  breath- 
ing hard.  He  told  me  to  shut  the  shutters  and  then 
to  send  a  man  on  horseback  for  Mr.  Pouncefort.  I 
turned  my  back  for  a  moment,  and  there  he  was, 
smash  down  upon  the  floor." 

"  A  fit !  Did  you  send  for  the  doctor  ?  Have  you 
got  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  lose  a  moment,  captain.  I  sent  off  the 
groom  at  once.  We  laid  him  on  the  sofa,  and  Mrs. 
Simmons  is  with  him.  He  looks  awful  bad.  That 's 
his  breathing,  sir,  as  you  can  hear." 

Stephen  held  fast  by  a  chair  to  steady  himself. 
"  This  is  what  Robson  feared,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  captain,  doctor  always  said  as  his  was  a  risky 
life ;  and  master 's  feared  it,  too.  Getting  in  a  pas- 
sion 's  bad  for  him,  sir,  and  so  is  the  great  heat  and 
being  out  in  the  sun.  Mrs.  Simmons  has  got  ice  to 
his  head,  and  we  're  doing  all  we  know  till  the  doctor 
comes.  Had  master  been  badly  put  out,  sir,  by  any- 
thing as  happened  ?  You  will  perhaps  know  ?  " 

Stephen  made  no  reply.  He  stood  and  listened  to 
the  loud  breathing,  with  which  the  very  house  seemed 
to  vibrate.  "  Did  you  send  for  Mr.  Pouncefort,  as  my 
father  directed  ?  " 

"  We  've  had  no  time  to  think  of  that.  I  thought 
the  doctor  was  the  first  thing." 

"  You  were  quite  right,  Larkins  ;  it  was  better  not 
to  worry  him,  in  that  state." 

"  Shall  I  telegraph  now,  sir,  to  Mr.  Pouncefort  ?     I 


THE  SQUIRE   GOES  HOME.  483 

thought  I  'd  wait  till  one  of  you    gentlemen    came 
home." 

Stephen  again  stood  silent  for  a  long  minute,  paying 
no  attention.  At  length,  "  I  don't  think  you  need 
trouble  yourself  further,"  he  said. 


XLV. 

AFTER  THE   STORM. 

TUMULT  and  trouble  seemed  to  have  died  out  of 
the  house  on  the  hill ;  the  vacant  room  alone  showed 
a  few  traces  of  the  passion  and  conflict  that  had  been 
there.  The  screen  had  been  pushed  aside,  showing 
the  little  table  and  chair  behind  it,  which  Lily  had 
used  all  the  time  she  had  been  at  Mount  Travers, 
in  her  nervous  dread  of  being  seen  by  any  visitors  ; 
and  Mrs.  Travers's  chair  with  its  cushions,  her  foot- 
stool, and  the  pretty  stand  with  her  little  requirements, 
stood  all  astray,  as  they  had  been  thrust  to  one  side 
and  another,  in  the  sudden  commotion  which  Stephen, 
before  his  exit,  had  flung  into  the  enemy's  country. 
There  Elizabeth  had  knelt,  distracted,  imploring  her 
aunt  not  to  believe  what  was  nevertheless  true ;  and 
there  the  little  lady  had  stood,  thrusting  them  all  away, 
repulsing  her  footstool,  as  though  that,  too,  had  been 
an  enemy,  in  the  heat  of  her  indignation.  The  inani- 
mate things  showed  these  traces  of  human  emotion  in 
a  way  which  was  curiously  telling,  with  a  suggestive- 
ness  partly  comic,  partly  pathetic.  The  footstool  had 
been  turned  over  with  the  vehemence  of  the  foot  which 
on  ordinary  occasions  rested  on  it  so  peacefully.  The 
chair  in  which  Stephen  had  first  seated  himself  kept 
its  place,  —  turned  with  an  ingratiating  expression  to- 
wards that  of  Elizabeth,  which  had  been  pushed  back 
a  little,  —  with  its  chintz  cover  all  dragged  out  of 


AFTER    THE   STORM.  485 

place  by  the  man's  impetuous  movements.  But  all 
was  perfectly  silent  here,  as  on  other  fields  of  battle ; 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  butler,  coining  in  with  his 
tea-tray,  had  it  all  put  straight  again.  Nothing  could 
exceed  the  surprise  of  that  respectable  functionary  : 
no  bell  had  been  rung,  no  one  had  been  called  to  open 
the  door ;  and  yet  the  gentlemen  whom  he  had  ad- 
mitted had  all  melted  away,  leaving  no  trace,  and  even 
the  ladies  had  forgotten  that  it  was  time  for  tea. 

Lily  Ford  came  into  the  room  while  he  was  in  the 
act  of  calling  upon  some  of  his  subordinates  to  rear- 
range this  place  of  conflict.  Lily  had  become  Miss 
Ford,  —  she  was  a  visitor,  and  had  no  dealings,  except 
in  that  capacity,  with  the  servants  ;  but  they  all  knew 
who  she  was,  and  had  a  certain  reluctance  in  serving 
her.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  rising  in  the  world, 
and  bettering  yourself ;  but  to  wait  upon  one  of  his 
own  class  who  has  succeeded  in  doing  this  is  more 
than  any  free-born  servant  can  be  expected  to  do. 

"  "Will  you  kindly  take  up  tea  to  Mrs.  Travers's 
room  ?  She  is  not  coming  down,"  Lily  said. 

She  had  been  crying  ;  her  lips  had  still  a  faint 
quiver  in  them,  and  something  like  the  echo  of  a  sob 
came  into  her  voice  as  she  spoke.  Though  it  had  been 
her  mother's  delight  to  think  that  she  was  quite  a  lady, 
Lily,  in  fact,  had  rather  the  air  of  a  very  pretty,  very 
refined  lady's-maid.  That  is  not  saying  much,  for  it 
is  sometimes  difficult  enough  to  tell  which  is  which, 
especially  when  the  inferior  in  position  is  the  prettier 
by  nature,  as  sometimes  happens.  It  is  only,  perhaps, 
a  certain  want  of  freedom,  a  greater  self-restraint,  — 
such  as  is  not  unlikely  to  add  to  the  air  of  refinement, 
—  which  marks  the  difference.  Lily  was  very  quiet, 
very  reticent  and  subdued,  and  those  signs  of  emotion 


486  THE   SECOND  SON. 

seemed  to  betray  to  the  man's  eyes  tokens  of  "  a  smash- 
up."  That  his  two  mistresses  should  have  quarreled 
did  not,  with  his  knowledge  of  them,  appear  very 
probable ;  but  that  Miss  Ford  —  Miss,  indeed !  — 
should  have  found  her  level  and  got  the  "  sack,"  ac- 
cording to  the  phraseology  of  the  servants'  hall,  was 
the  most  natural,  not  to  say  pleasing,  thing  in  the 
world. 

"  Tea  for  one,  miss  ?  "  the  butler  said,  with  a  look 
that  gave  meaning  to  the  words. 

Lily  replied  only  with  a  wondering  glance,  but  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  "  You  may  put  away  the  screen,  if 
you  please." 

It  was  very  evident  then  to  the  household,  through 
which  the  news  flashed  in  a  moment,  that  there  was 
an  end  of  Miss  Ford  ;  that  she  had  got  the  sack,  and 
would  trouble  them  with  her  obnoxious  superiority  no 
more. 

What  went  on,  however,  in  Mrs.  Travers's  room 
during  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  was  little  like 
this.  There  the  old  lady  sat,  propped  up  with  more 
cushions  than  usual,  in  a  state  of  tearful  dignity  and 
exaltation.  She  had  felt  the  blow  profoundly,  —  as 
much  as  nature  would  allow  her  to  feel.  But  there  is 
this  advantage  in  a  very  small  body,  possessed  by  a 
not  very  great  mind :  that  its  physical  capabilities  are 
limited,  and  that  the  greatest  anguish  wears  itself  out 
proportionately  soon.  Mrs.  Travers  had  been  deeply 
wounded ;  she  had  been  very  indignant,  very  angry, 
and  then  had  recurred  to  the  first  pang,  and  felt  the 
slight  and  the  cruelty  of  her  husband's  injustice  to  the 
bottom  of  her  little  but  affectionate  heart.  But  when 
she  had  gone  through  that  round  of  feeling  twice  or 
thrice  she  was  exhausted,  and  for  the  time  could  feel 


AFTER    THE  STORM.  487 

no  more.  Everything  that  Elizabeth,  in  a  compunction 
which  was  very  deep  though  quite  uncalled  for,  since 
she  had  no  part  in  the  offense,  and  in  her  anxiety  to 
sooth,  and  in  her  real  gratitude  and  affection,  could  do 
had  been  lavished  upon  her  aunt ;  while  Lily,  all  over- 
whelmed still  by  the  event  in  which  she  had  taken  so 
great  a  share,  and  unable  to  restrain  her  sobbing,  had 
lingered  round  the  other  sufferer  with  that  fellowship 
which  trouble  has  with  trouble  and  pain  with  pain. 
Mrs.  Travers  comforted  by  every  outward  appliance, 
—  by  cushions  applied  skillfully  at  the  very  angles  of 
her  back  which  wanted  support,  and  tender  bathings 
of  her  hot  eyes  and  forehead,  and  gentle  ministrations 
with  a  fan,  and  arrangements  of  blinds  and  curtains  to 
temper  the  light,  —  sank  at  last  into  a  condition  of  not 
disagreeable  weakness,  with  all  the  superiority  in  it  of 
undeserved  affliction. 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  little  better  now.  I  believe  that  you 
mean  well,  Lizzy.  I  am  sure  you  would  never  be  un- 
kind to  me,  my  dear.  Perhaps,  as  you  say,  it  was  all 
a  muddle,  just  a  muddle  at  the  end.  And  Edmund 
Mitford  spoke  up  very  fair.  Oh,  I  don't  say  it 's  your 
fault,  or  his  fault.  But  I  should  n't  wonder  if  I  'd  be 
better  with  Lily,  for  a  bit ;  leave  me  with  Lily,  for  a 
bit.  We  Ve  both  been  badly  used ;  and  she 's  very 
feeling ;  and  you  can't  be  expected  to  feel  just  the 
same  when  it 's  all  to  your  advantage.  Oh,  I  did  n't 
mean  to  say  anything  unkind.  Leave  me  for  a  bit 
with  Lily,  till  I  come  to  myself." 

This  was  what  she  had  said,  sending  Elizabeth 
away  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Travers  lay  back  in  her  chair, 
with  that  sense  of  being  a  martyr  which  is  never  with- 
out a  faint  touch  of  pleasure  in  it.  She  had  been  over- 
whelmed by  sudden  trouble,  which  nobody  could  say 


483  THE  SECOND  SON. 

she  had  deserved,  —  she  had  deserved  nothing  but 
good,  and  evil  was  what  had  come  upon  her.  But  now 
the  sensation  of  quiet  after  a  storm,  of  i-est  after  suf- 
fering, was  softly  diffused  through  the  atmosphere : 
the  storm  had  passed  over  the  gentle  victim,  —  that 
storm  which  she  had  done  nothing  to  bring  down  ;  her 
wrongs  had  subsided  into  that  quiescent  condition  in 
which,  while  ceasing  to  hurt,  they  continued  to  give 
her  a  claim  upon  the  respect  and  sympathy  of  all  near. 
She  said  in  a  half-audible  voice,  "  Let  them  bring  the 
tea  here,  Lily  ;  "  and  after  her  docile  companion  had 
accomplished  that  commission,  she  called  her  close  to 
her  chair.  "  Sit  down  by  me,  my  poor  dear,  and  tell 
me  everything,"  she  said. 

When  Saunders,  the  butler,  brought  in  the  tea 
(which  after  all  he  had  not  ventured  to  bring  in  for 
only  one),  it  is  to  be  hoped  it  was  a  lesson  to  him  to 
see  Miss  Ford  seated  on  a  stool  close  to  Mrs.  Travers's 
side,  while  the  old  lady  held  her  hand,  and  patted  it 
from  time  to  time,  saying,  "  My  poor  dear,  my  poor 
dear!  "  Saunders  said,  in  the  servants'  hall,  that  they 
were  crying  together,  and  as  thick  as  they  could  be  ; 
and  that  he  shook  in  his  shoes  for  fear  Mrs.  Travers 
should  say  something  about  the  tea  for  one ;  but  she 
might  be  keeping  it  up  for  him,  for  another  time. 
They  stopped  talking  while  he  was  there,  so  he 
could  n't  tell  what  the  fuss  was  about ;  but  they  were 
as  thick  as  thick,  —  that  he  could  swear.  He  with- 
drew very  quietly,  treading  as  lightly  as  a  man  of  four- 
teen stone  could  do,  not  to  call  Miss  Ford's  attention 
to  him,  and  never  was  more  thankful  than  when  he 
found  himself  safe  outside  the  door. 

Mrs.  Travers  heard  all  Lily's  story,  every  word, 
with  the  keenest  interest.  To  have  a  romance  in  real 


AFTER    THE   STORM.  489 

life  thus  unfolded  to  her  from  the  heroine's  own  lips, 
more  exciting  than  any  novel,  would  have  been  an  en- 
chantment to  her  at  any  time  ;  and  now  afforded  such 
a  diversion  from  her  own  trouble  as  nothing  else  could 
have  supplied,  especially  as  her  curiosity  had  been 
roused  by  partial  revelations  before.  She  would  not 
miss  a  detail  of  the  terrible  night  in  the  street,  nor 
of  how  the  poor  girl  felt  when  she  found  herself  lying 
on  a  sofa  in  the  railway  waiting-room,  with  Miss  Tra- 
vers  bending  over  her,  and  the  kind  woman  who  was 
the  attendant  there  standing  by  her  side  with  a  cup  of 
tea.  Miss  Travers  had  been  her  salvation,  Lily  said 
with  tears ;  she  had  telegraphed  at  once  to  the  mother, 
making  it  all  appear  quite  natural,  so  that  even  her 
own  people  knew  nothing,  except  that  Miss  Travers 
had  taken  her  to  town  and  was  making  a  companion  of 
her.  They  were  not  to  say  where  she  was,  at  first,  on 
account  of  poor  Mr.  Roger,  for  whose  sake  the  Fords 
had  supposed  their  daughter  had  run  away.  All  this 
had  seemed  most  plausible  to  her  father  and  mother  : 
and  thus  Lily's  terrible  adventure  had  turned  out  the 
most  fortunate  incident  in  her  life.  Mrs.  Travers  asked 
and  was  told  much  more  than  this,  especially  about 
the  state  of  Lily's  heart,  and  how  she  now  believed 
that  she  had  never  loved  Stephen  at  all,  but  had  only 
been  flattered  and  excited  by  his  attentions  ;  for  the 
sight  of  him,  Lily  declared,  had  not  called  her  heart 
back  to  him  at  all,  but  made  her  feel  that  she  wished 
never  to  see  him  again,  and  that  if  there  was  not 
another  man  in  the  world  !  This  she  protested  with 
many  tears. 

"  And  all  the  time  Lizzy  thought  it  was  poor 
Roger,  and  begged  me  to  say  nothing,  for  he  was 
dead  ;  and  yet  could  n't  quite  forgive  poor  Edmund, 


490  THE  SECOND  SON. 

thinking  he  knew ;  and  was  angry,  something  about 
money  that  Roger  had  left,  thinking  they  wanted  to 
make  it  up  to  you  with  money.  It  has  been  hard  for 
you,  my  poor  dear,"  Mrs.  Travers  said ;  "  but  it  is  a 
good  thing  for  Lizzy  that  all  this  has  come  out.  It 
shows  what  a  man  he  is,  that  in  his  revenge  he  should 
have  taken  it  out  on  me.  Lily,  my  child,  give  me  a 
cup  of  tea.  I  want  it  very  much,  and  so  must  you, 
my  dear ;  there  is  nothing  that  revives  one  so,  when 
one  is  exhausted  with  crying  and  trouble,  and  when 
one's  nerves  are  shattered.  Lily,  there  is  one  thing 
this  discovery  has  done,  —  it  has  set  me  quite  free. 
I  always  thought,  whatever  happened,  I  was  bound  to 
Lizzy,  and  to  my  own  house,  and  all  that.  But  now 
that  I  find  out  I  have  got  no  house,  and  Lizzy  will  be 
getting  married,  how  shoidd  you  like  to  go  away  trav- 
eling, to  Switzerland,  and  all  kinds  of  beautiful  places, 
Lily  Ford?" 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Travers !  "  cried  Lily,  drying  her  eyes. 

"You  needn't  say  any  more,  my  dear;  it  has 
brought  back  the  light  into  your  face  in  a  moment. 
We  '11  go  away  and  travel,  you  and  I.  I  have  thought 
of  it  a  long  time,  but  I  have  never  said  anything  about 
it.  In  the  first  place,  Lizzy  never  cared  for  going 
abroad ;  and  then,  though  I  'm  very  fond  of  Lizzy, 
she  is  a  kind  of  tall  character,  you  know,  that  does 
not  always  do  to  go  about  with  a  small  body  like  me. 
I  have  always  been  on  the  lookout  for  a  nice  quiet 
girl  that  I  could  be  fond  of,  that  wouldn't  be  too  se- 
rious or  distracted,  with  other  things  to  think  of. 
Lily,  since  the  first  day  you  came  here,  I  have  always 
felt  I  could  get  on  with  you."  Mrs.  Travers  raised 
herself  a  little  upon  her  cushions,  as  she  sipped  her 
tea,  and  a  faint  animation  came  into  her  face.  "  I 


AFTER    THE  STORM.  491 

never  could  have  done  with  a  companion  that  had 
been  got  by  an  advertisement,  or  recommended  by 
a  clergyman,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  But  getting 
fond  of  you  before  one  ever  thought  of  anything  of 
the  sort,  —  it  is  just  a  Providence,  Lily  !  And  your 
father  and  mother,  —  Lizzy  has  quite  settled  about 
them,  so  they  can  have  no  objections.  We  '11  go 
abroad,  you  and  I :  we  '11  be  quite  comfortable,  and 
take  Martha,  and  perhaps  a  man  too,  if  you  think 
that  would  be  a  comfort,  —  for  I  have  a  little  money 
of  my  own,  enough  for  all  we  shall  want.  We  '11 
make  no  plans,  but  just  go  wherever  it  will  be  nicest, 
wherever  we  like  best :  we  '11  be  quite  free  and  inde- 
pendent, for  we  '11  be  company  for  each  other,  which 
is  what  I  have  always  wanted.  Don't  you  think  it 
will  be  very  nice,  Lily?  It's  what  I've  always 
wanted,  but  never  have  seen  my  way  to,  till  now." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Travers,  it  is  like  a  dream,  —  it  is  like 
nothing  but  a  dream  !  "  Lily  cried. 

And  these  two  innocent  creatures  dried  their  tears, 
and  began  to  talk  of  traveling-dresses  and  the  most 
beautiful  places  they  had  ever  heard  or  read  about. 
All  the  world  was  "  abroad,"  to  them  ;  it  meant  every- 
thing, from  Boulogne  to  Bombay,  the  first  seeming 
about  as  far  off  as  the  last ;  and  in  the  novelty  and 
delight  of  this  thought,  their  troubles  floated  away. 

Elizabeth  had  left  her  aunt's  room  with  a  beating 
heart.  To  reckon  up  all  that  had  passed  in  this 
eventful  afternoon  was  impossible  ;  the  one  thing  im- 
portant was  the  question  whether  she  should  find  Ed- 
vnund  waiting  for  her  down-stairs.  The  current  of 
these  hasty  events  had  swept  the  two  together  in  a 
way  she  had  never  intended,  nor  thought  of.  She 
had  put  out  her  hand  to  him  in  her  first  astonishment 


492  THE   SECOND  SON. 

in  the  shock  of  Lily's  revelation,  and  in  the  force  and 
impetuosity  of  her  feelings  had  called  him  by  his 
name.  Up  to  that  moment,  Elizabeth  had  sorrow- 
fully believed  that  it  was  Roger  who  was  the  pitiful 
hero  of  Lily's  adventure.  The  girl  had  not  said  it ; 
had  not,  as  Miss  Travers  now  perceived,  given  any 
indication  that  it  was  he  ;  but  Elizabeth  had  convinced 
herself  of  it  by  reasonings  which  it  is  unnecessary  to 
follow,  by  one  piece  of  circumstantial  evidence  after 
another.  In  all  that  Roger  had  done  Edmund  had 
involved  himself.  In  her  own  hearing,  he  had  spoken 
of  money  which  Roger  had  destined  for  Lily,  and 
which  Elizabeth  took  for  granted  was  given  as  com- 
pensation for  the  wrong  he  had  intended  to  do.  Her 
heart  had  been  hot  and  sore  with  the  secret  which 
nobody  knew.  She  could  not  bear  to  stand  by  and 
witness  the  love  and  the  grief  and  the  honor  with 
which  Roger's  name  was  surrounded,  —  Roger,  who 
she  believed  had  stained  that  name  with  such  schemes 
and  artifices  at  the  very  end  of  his  life !  It  had  been 
intolerable  to  her  to  hear  the  universal  praises  that 
followed  him,  to  feel  herself  compelled  to  acquiesce  in 
what  was  said.  She  had  stood  silent,  in  painful  re- 
pression, unwilling  to  consent,  still  more  unwilling  to 
condemn  him  who  had  gone  before  a  higher  tribunal. 
She  had  determined  at  last,  that  very  day,  to  tell  Ed- 
mund her  secret,  —  that  it  was  she  who  had  recov- 
ered Lily  and  brought  her  home,  and  that  she  knew 
everything.  When  the  discovery  came,  and  she  was 
made  aware  that  she  had  been  wronging  Roger  all  the 
time,  Elizabeth's  generous  heart  had  turned,  with  a 
bound  of  repentance  and  acknowledgment,  to  Roger's 
faithful  brother,  whom  she  had  been  holding  at  arm's 
length,  knowing  well  —  as  how  could  she  help  know- 


AFTER    THE  STORM.  493 

ing  ?  —  what  was  on  his  lips.  Her  subdued  scream  of 
horror  and  compunction,  her  call  to  Edmund  to  for- 
give her,  her  hand  put  into  his,  had  all  been  signs 
which  she  had  no  power  to  restrain.  She  had  done 
this  involuntarily,  throwing  herself  at  Edmund's  head, 
as  the  vulgar  say.  And  afterwards  it  had  all  seemed 
to  be  taken  for  granted  by  him  and  every  one,  she 
could  not  tell  how.  He  had  spoken  for  her,  and  she 
had  accepted  his  guidance  with  proud  humility,  stand- 
ing up  by  him,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm.  It  all 
appeared  to  have  been  settled  for  them  without  a  word 
said  between  them,  without  anything  which  usually 
constitutes  such  a  bond.  He  had  not  said  that  he 
loved  her,  nor  that  he  wanted  her  ;  there  had  been  no 
asking,  no  consent.  If  there  had  been  any  advance 
made,  it  had  come  from  her,  with  that  unconscious 
cry  of  "  Edmund  !  "  with  the  giving  of  her  hand. 
When  she  left  her  aunt's  room,  Elizabeth,  for  the  first 
time  able  to  think  of  herself,  went  down  the  stairs 
very  slowly,  in  great  agitation,  not  knowing  what  she 
was  to  find.  Would  he  still  be  there  ?  Would  he 
have  seized  the  opportunity  to  escape  from  a  position 
which  was  not,  after  all,  of  his  seeking  ?  Or  if  he  re- 
mained, would  it  be  with  an  embarrassed  acquiescence 
in  what  had  happened,  which  had  been  none  of  his 
doing  ?  She  could  not  tell.  Her  heart  was  beating 
very  fast,  though  her  foot  was  slow.  She  was  not  a 
humble  girl,  ready  to  acknowledge  her  lord,  but  a 
woman  full  of  natural  pride  and  independence,  very 
sensitive,  deeply  wondering  what  on  his  side  the  man 
had  thought  and  now  had  to  say. 

She  was  not  left  long  in  doubt.  Edmund  was  wait- 
ing in  the  hall,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  first 
thought  of  her  alarmed  soul  was  that  he  was  on  his 


494  THE  SECOND  SON. 

way  out,  that  he  had  been  about  to  leave  the  house  ; 
and  her  heart  stopped  beating  for  a  moment.  But 
Edmund  was  not  going  away ;  he  put  out  his  hands 
to  take  hers,  drawing  one  through  his  arm. 

"  Come  out,"  he  said :  "  now  that  you  have  come,  I 
don't  feel  that  the  house  can  contain  me.  I  have  a 
thousand  and  a  thousand  more  things  to  say." 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried,  "  what  must  you  think  of  me  ? 
What  can  I  say  to  you  ?  Everything  seems  to  have 
been  taken  out  of  our  hands." 

"  Think  of  you  ?  It  will  take  a  long  time  to  tell 
you  all  that.  Say  to  me  ?  Everything,  —  whatever 
comes  into  your  mind :  for  now  you  are  I,  and  I  am 
you.  Come  out  into  the  free  air ;  there  is  too  much 
of  me  to  be  contained  in  any  house.  Dear  Elizabeth, 
ever  dear,  there  is  no  ghost  to  stand  between  us 
now  ?  " 

"  Did  you  feel  it,"  she  said,  "  that  spectre  ?  Oh, 
how  could  I  ever  have  entertained  such  an  unworthy 
thought ! " 

"  I  knew  it  was  not  Eoger,"  he  said.  "  Some  time 
you  shall  hear  what  he  said  of  you  and  me,  that  last 
night.  But  in  the  mean  while  we  have  everything  to 
say  between  ourselves  and  about  ourselves.  I  cannot 
hold  back  a  word,  because  events  seem  to  have  settled 
it  for  us.  Elizabeth,  I  am  going  to  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning." 

They  took  refuge  from  the  wide  landscape  in  a  sum- 
mer-house which,  but  that  nature  had  laden  it  with  a 
wild  and  tangled  growth  of  honeysuckle  and  jessa- 
mine,  would  have  been  an  entirely  cockney  erection, 
in  the  taste  of  the  late  Mr.  Travers,  and  there  re- 
viewed the  complete  rise  and  progress  of  a  love  which 
was  now  by  mere  force  of  development  clear  to  both 


AFTER    THE  STORM.  495 

from  the  beginning,  and  conscious  as  it  bad  scarcely 
been,  until  a  recent  period,  but  of  this  both  were  now 
completely  unaware.  The  sunny  afternoon  sped  over 
them,  the  shadows  lengthened,  a  cool  breeze  tem- 
pered the  heat,  blowing  straight  over  the  treetops 
from  the  sea.  Everything  was  sweet  to  them,  —  the 
light  and  the  shadows,  the  heat  and  the  coolness,  the 
sun  and  the  breeze.  The  honeysuckle  breathed  out 
its  sweetness  into  the  air  :  and  so  did  the  birds,  sing- 
ing all  manner  of  love  songs  and  bridal  ditties,  select- 
ing the  best  out  of  their  stores,  such  as  they  had  used 
on  their  own  account  in  spring.  These  two,  sitting 
wrapt  in  airs  of  heaven,  neither  heard  the  birds  nor 
smelt  the  flowers  ;  they  had  all  music  and  fragrance 
and  sweetness  in  themselves.  They  were  as  little  con- 
cerned in,  as  little  conscious,  as  little  prescient  of  the 
scene  going  on  at  Melcombe  as  if  they  had  lived  in 
another  world. 

Thus  the  conflict  and  the  misery  which  for  an  hour 
or  so  had  seemed  to  concentrate  in  this  innocent  house, 
and  which  had  overshadowed  it  with  gloom,  and  given 
a  tragic  color  to  every  ray  of  light,  passed  away,  being 
in  no  manner  native  to  the  place.  Within  doors,  the 
two  injured  persons  who  had  been  the  chief  sufferers 
forgot  everything,  and  planned  their  little  consolatory 
travels  with  the  freshness  of  delighted  children ; 
while  here  every  cloud  flitted  away  from  the  two  most 
blest,  united  after  long  tantalizing  drifts  asunder,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  that  most  perfect  hour  of  human  fel- 
lowship, the  lovers'  first  mutual  understanding.  It 
does  not  always  happen  ;  but  here  for  once  life  and 
the  hour  brought  no  injustice.  The  clouds  passed 
away  from  the  innocent  household,  and  did  no  harm. 


496  THE  SECOND  SON. 

The  other  house  on  the  plain  below  was  not  so 
easily  delivered.  It  was  not  innocent,  but  guilty  ;  and 
on  it  the  clouds  descended,  full  of  lightning  and 
thunder  and  storm. 


XLVI. 

THE    LAST    OF    THE     SQUIRE. 

EDMUND  did  not  return  to  Melcombe  till  late.  He 
stayed  all  the  delightful  evening  through  at  Mount 
Travers,  dining  there,  as  in  his  present  position  it  was 
the  right  and  natural  thing  to  do.  That  afternoon 
and  evening  fled  like  a  dream.  Sometimes  it  happens 
that  to  two  people  thus  suddenly  brought  together, 
after  long  tending  towards  each  other,  and  when  the 
first  flush  of  youthful  security  has  passed,  the  moment 
of  union  brings  a  completion  as  well  as  a  beginning  of 
life,  which  is  unique  in  its  perfection.  It  combines 
the  rapture  of  early  bliss  with  that  deep-seated  satis- 
faction of  maturity,  which  is  rarer,  and  if  not  so  ex- 
quisite, yet  the  most  real  version  of  happiness.  Up 
to  this  moment,  they  had  not  lived  for  themselves. 
The  life  of  Elizabeth  had  been  spent  in  that  most  per- 
fect of  filial  duty  which  is  exercised  towards  relations 
who  have  the  claims  of  love  and  kindness  without 
those  of  warm  sympathy  and  congeniality.  She  was 
not  like  the  kind  old  couple  who  had  been  so  good  to 
her.  Both  in  what  they  had  done  for  her  and  in  what 
they  had  withheld,  they  had  often  wounded  a  nature 
which  was  not  like  theirs.  Her  uncle  had  been  gener- 
ous beyond  measure  to  her  in  his  will,  but  had  put  her 
into  the  most  false  position,  and  made  her  the  appar- 
ent instrument  of  a  wrong  which  was  abhorrent  to 
her.  Edmund,  on  the  other  side,  had  lived  a  neutral- 


498  THE  SECOND  SON. 

colored  life,  because,  no  doubt,  of  a  certain  spectator- 
ship  of  nature,  which  often  betrays  a  man  who  is 
without  any  prick  of  necessity  or  strong  impulse  of 
passion  into  indifference  and  mediocrity.  He  was  one 
of  those,  not,  perhaps,  the  least  happy  nor  the  least 
useful,  who  stand  aside  out  of  the  conflicts  of  life  and 
look  on,  and  who  seem  to  attain  to  little  by  persistence 
of  wanting  little,  —  by  an  interest  which  they  have 
rather  in  life  in  the  general  than  in  any  special  objects 
to  be  appropriated  to  themselves.  Such  men  can  be 
emancipated  and  brought  into  a  warmer  existence  only 
by  love,  which  gives  them  a  warmer  and  stronger 
identity  by  adding  another  life  to  theirs.  Love  that 
"•smites  the  chord  of  self,"  till  it,  "trembling,  passed 
in  music  out  of  sight,"  is  one  thing ;  but  there  is 
another,  in  which  the  selfsame  love,  not  less  noble, 
takes  up  "  the  harp  of  life,  and  smites  on  all  its  chords 
with  might ; "  so  that  the  musing  spectator,  the  ob- 
server of  other  men,  becomes  himself  a  man  by  dint  of 
the  woman  poured  into  him,  filling  his  veins  and  his 
soul  with  an  added  vitality.  This  pair  found  them- 
selves increased  so,  with  a  wonder  and  a  delight  be- 
yond the  reach  of  the  simpler  boy  and  girl,  who  only 
know  themselves  happy.  They  had  each  expanded, 
risen  into  a  stronger  individuality,  become  more  in 
themselves  by  throwing  everything  into  each  other. 
To  both  the  exquisite  novelty  of  having  another  self 
was  not  only  a  blessedness  indescribable,  but  a  marvel, 
an  exhilaration,  an  elevation  of  individual  being,  such 
as  no  prophecy  or  description  had  led  them  to  antici- 
pate. They  both  seemed  to  begin  to  live  from  that 
moment,  to  understand  what  it  was  to  have  that  pos- 
session of  human  capability  and  power.  At  once  out 
of  a  world  mysteriously  indifferent,  uncomprehending, 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  SQUIRE.  499 

uninterested,  never  able  to  divine  what  they  would  be 
at,  to  possess  each  an  ear  into  which  to  pour  every- 
thing that  came  into  the  heart,  each  an  eye  always 
awake  to  what  each  was  doing,  each  another  who  was 
themselves,  —  what  a  wonder,  what  a  miracle,  what  an 
expansion  of  living ;  nay,  what  life  and  personal  iden- 
tity !  This  day  was  a  revelation,  a  kind  of  gospel, 
a  new  communication  direct  out  of  heaven  for  both. 
They  spent  those  sunny  hours  together,  which  seemed 
like  so  many  moments,  and  yet  were  of  more  account 
in  their  life  than  a  dozen  previous  years.  They  dined 
together  at  a  table  which  derived  a  curious  dignity 
from  the  thought  that  henceforth  it  was  to  be  the  cen- 
tre of  life  dispensed  to  others  ;  of  meeting  and  com- 
munion ;  of  breaking  of  bread,  half  sacramental  with 
the  sacred  seal  of  domestic  unity,  of  possession  in  com- 
mon. All  common  life  became  splendid  and  noble  in 
this  illumination ;  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  read, 
radiant,  the  exposition  of  what  existence  actually  was 
in  each  other's  eyes. 

Edmund  walked  home  in  the  delicious*  darkness  of 
the  summer  night.  The  road  was  white  under  his 
feet,  the  dark  hedges  standing  up  on  either  hand,  the 
immense  vault  of  sky  over  him  sparkling  with  innu- 
merable stars.  In  his  present  mood,  moonlight  would 
have  been  too  much  ;  it  would  have  introduced  a  more 
dramatic  element,  strong  shadows  along  with  the  inten- 
sity of  its  white  light.  He  loved  better  that  soft  shin- 
ing which  filled  the  heavens  with  delightful  company 
and  silent  fellowship.  He  walked  along  lightly,  as  if 
he  trod  upon  air,  that  same  road  which  his  father  had 
traversed  in  a  passion  of  physical  and  mental  excite- 
ment, which  made  of  it  an  awful,  half -delirious  path- 
way from  life  to  death ;  and  which  Stephen  had  trod 


600  THE   SECOND   SOX. 

heavily,  with  anxious  thoughts,  subsiding  rage,  and 
rising  care.  He  thought  of  neither  of  them,  nor  of 
what  he  should  find  when  he  reached  home,  nor  of  how 
he  should  communicate  the  great  event  which  had 
happened  to  himself.  None  of  these  things  disturbed 
Edmund's  mind.  The  fact  that  he  was  shut  out  from 
his  inheritance  had  made  him  perfectly  independent. 
In  comparison  with  Elizabeth  he  was  poor ;  but  that 
did  not  trouble  him.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  any 
mean  or  mercenary  motive  could  ever  be  associated 
with  his  name  ;  nor  did  he  think  of  Elizabeth's  supe- 
rior wealth  any  more  than  he  thought  of  the  dress  she 
had  worn,  or  any  other  matter  of  insignificant  detail. 
Every  trifle  comes  to  be  important  in  its  time,  and  no 
doubt  the  day  would  come  when  he  would  be  critical 
about  his  wife's  dress,  and  like  her  to  wear  this  or  that. 
But  in  the  mean  time  he  had  no  leisure  in  his  mind  for 
anything  but  herself,  and  the  wonderful  possession 
that  had  come  to  him  in  her,  Elizabeth.  He  said 
the  name  over  to  himself,  looking  up  at  the  stars  with 
a  low  laugh  of  pleasure,  and  moisture  in  his  eyes. 
Elizabeth, —  that  was  enough.  Not  Lizzy:  Lizzy 
was  not  characteristic  of  her,  as  some  pet  names 
are.  Elizabeth,  —  a  name  to  be  said  slowly,  savored 
in  all  its  syllables,  which  embodied  not  softness 
only,  but  strength ;  a  queen's  name,  a  common  name, 
liquid  in  the  beginning,  coming  up  strong  on  the 
rock  of  that  concluding  sound.  His  laugh  sounded 
into  the  silence,  a  low,  congenial  note,  subdued,  yet 
the  uttermost  expression  of  human  pleasure,  and  sat- 
isfaction, and  content.  He  was  not  laughing  at  him, 
self  in  his  lover's  folly,  as  perhaps  a  wiser  man  might 
have  done,  but  only  for  happiness,  for  pure  pleasure, 
for  delight. 


THE  LAST  OF   THE   SQUIRE.  501 

The  door  was  still  standing  wide  open  when  Ed- 
mund reached  Melcombe,  and  a  dog-cart  stood  before 
the  steps,  with  lamps,  which  made  a  contradictory 
yellow  glimmer  in  the  paleness  of  the  night.  As  he 
approached,  Larkins  came  ont  upon  the  threshold. 
"  You  need  n't  wait,"  he  said  to  the  driver.  "  Doctor 's 
going  to  stop  all  night." 

"  How 's  master  ?  "  said  the  man. 

"  Don't  say  nothing  in  the  house,  but  it 's  my  opin- 
ion he  's  a  dead  man ;  and  if  Robson  don't  think  so, 
too,  I  'm  a  —  But  mind  you,  not  a  word  ;  the  family 
might  n't  like  "  — 

"  What 's  that  you  are  saying,  Larkins  ?  "  Edmund 
laid  a  sudden  hand  upon  the  butler's  shoulder,  which 
made  him  jump. 

"  Mr.  Edmund  !  I  'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir. 
I  did  n't  see  you.  I  was  telling  James  to  put  up  — 
Dr.  Robson,  sir,  he 's  here,  and  will  not  be  going  — 
not  for  a  bit." 

"  Who  is  ill  ?  My  father  ?  What  is  it?  You  said 
he  was  a  dead  man." 

"  He  's  had  a  fit,  sir.  There  was  nobody  there  but 
me,  and  it 's  had  that  effect  upon  me  that  I  don't  know 
what  I  'm  saying.  I  hope  it  ain't  so  bad  as  that,  Mr. 
Edmund.  Don't  go  to  master's  room,  sir ;  Dr.  Rob- 
son  says  no  one  's  to  go  in.  The  captain,  he 's  in  the 
library." 

Edmund  had  gone  half-way  up  the  stairs,  but  he 
stopped  at  this,  and  came  slowly  down  again.  The 
shock  of  this  intimation  dispersed  all  that  bright  at- 
mosphere about  him,  as  if  it  had  been  a  bubble,  and 
brought  him  back  with  a  sudden  jar  into  so  different 
a  sphere.  He  was  well  aware  of  the  significance  of  the 
words  "a  fit,"  and  remembered,  with  a  throb  of  painful 


602  THE  SECOND  SON. 

sensation,  his  father's  continual  preoccupation  on  this 
subject,  his  occasional  attempts  at  self-restraint,  be- 
cause of  what  had  been  said  to  him  of  the  risks  he 
ran.  Poor  father !  overwhelmed  at  last  by  that  tem- 
pest'of  rage  and  shame.  His  exclamation  about  the 
harm  that  had  come  to  him  from  his  sons  recurred  to 
Edmund's  mind.  The  Squire  had  passed  safely  enough 
through  the  contrarieties  brought  upon  him  by  Roger: 
he  had  seen  his  first-born  die,  and  buried  him,  without 
any  danger  from  emotion.  But  now  —  Edmund  ap- 
proached the  library  very  unwillingly,  with  hesitating 
steps.  The  very  sight  of  Stephen  would,  he  felt,  be 
intolerable  ;  nor  did  he  know  how  his  brother  could 
look  him  in  the  face.  The  door  was  ajar,  and  he 
pushed  it  open  with  a  reluctant  hand.  The  apartment 
was  dimly  lighted  by  candles  on  the  niantel-piece, 
which  was  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  from  the 
Squire's  writing-table,  usually  the  central  point,  with 
its  one  brilliant  lamp.  The  fact  that  the  lamp  had 
not  been  lighted  was  already  a  sign  of  approaching 
change.  Edmund  saw  with  relief  that  the  doctor  stood 
with  Stephen  before  the  fireplace,  —  two  dark  figures 
in  the  ineffectual  light. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  he  asked.  "  Doctor,  I  am 
most  thankful  at  least  to  find  you  here." 

"Not  for  much  good,  I  'm  afraid,''  returned  the  doc- 
tor, shaking  his  head.  "  He  has  had  a  fit,  and  a  bad 
one.  I  must  not  conceal  from  you  that  he  is  very  ill. 
I  've  been  afraid  of  it  for  some  time  back.  Nothing 
we  have  done  has  been  of  any  avail  as  yet." 

Edmund  asked  anxiously  how  it  had  happened,  and 
received  from  the  doctor  Larkius's  story,  cut  short  of 
various  details.  "  He  seems  to  have  walked  a  consid- 
erable distance  in  the  heat  of  the  sun.  Your  brother 


THE  LAST  OF   THE   SQUIRE.  503 

does  not  appear  to  be  aware  of  any  other  circum- 
stances." 

"  He  had  been  very  much  excited,  —  he  had  made  a 
painful  discovery." 

Stephen  turned  half  round,  with  a  dark  glance  from 
under  his  brows. 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  the  doctor.  Then  he  added  quickly, 
"  These  things,  of  course,  would  be  but  secondary 
causes.  I  have  warned  him  repeatedly  that  he  must 
take  the  utmost  care,  in  respect  of  diet  and  —  many 
other  things.  But  with  all  precautions,  disease  cannot 
be  staved  off.  It  was  bound  to  come,  sooner  or  later." 

"  And  you  take  a  despondent  view  ?  " 

"  One  can  never  tell,"  replied  Dr.  Robson.  "  He 
has  had  only  threatenings,  no  attack  before,  and  his 
strength  is  intact.  I  shall  stay  all  night  —  or  until  — 
In  the  mean  time,  I  have  been  saying  to  your  brother, 
if  you  would  like  to  get  a  physician  from  London. 
The  telegraph  is  closed  by  this  time ;  but  a  message 
could  be  sent  by  the  midnight  train." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  well  to  send  one,  doctor,  not- 
withstanding our  perfect  confidence  in  you." 

"  I  did  n't  see  the  use,"  objected  Stephen,  with 
averted  head. 

"  It  is  no  question  of  confidence  in  me.  I  should 
prefer  it,"  the  doctor  said. 

"Then  I  '11  send  at  once." 

Stephen  again  gave  his  brother  a  darkling  look. 
There  was  in  it  a  curious  defiance,  yet  timidity.  Ed- 
mund was  the  eldest ;  he  had  the  first  right  to  act.  He 
asked  no  advice  from  his  junior,  who  was  tacitly  put 
aside  altogether,  while  Edmund  consulted  with  the 
doctor,  after  sending  off  his  message,  which  was  dis- 
patched by  a  servant,  with  authority  to  engage  a  spe- 


504  THE  SECOND  SON. 

cial  train  to  bring  down  the  great  physician  with,  as 
little  delay  as  possible.  Stephen  walked  up  and  down 
the  room,  while  everything  was  thus  taken  out  of  his 
hands.  He  might  have  attended  to  these  matters  on 
his  own  responsibility,  and  saved  himself  from  being 
thus  superseded  in  what  he  felt,  with  a  sourd  mixture 
of  anger  and  alarm  and  satisfaction,  to  be  his  o\vii 
house.  He  did  not  wish  to  deprive  his  father  of  any 
care.  He  did  not  wish  him  to  die,  though  that  would 
be  a  solution  of  all  the  difficulties  of  the  moment,  which 
it  was  scarcely  possible  not  to  desire.  Nothing  so  bad 
as  this,  however,  was  in  his  mind.  He  could  not  have 
told  why  he  had  not  acted  upon  the  doctor's  suggestion 
and  telegraphed,  so  long  as  there  was  time.  Perhaps 
it  had  been  with  a  vague  idea  of  conciliating  Dr.  Rob- 
son,  of  having  the  doctor  on  his  side  ;  perhaps  merely 
from  a  reluctance  to  act,  a  hesitation,  a  resistance,  of 
which  he  was  now  ashamed  and  wroth  with  himself. 
He  might  have  done  it,  and  asserted  his  authority,  in- 
stead of  letting  that  fellow  cut  in,  as  if  he  had  any 
right.  Meanwhile,  Edmund  acted  as  if  he  had  the 
sole  right.  He  went  up  with  Dr.  Robson  to  the  pa- 
tient's room,  when  the  doctor  thought  it  time  for  an- 
other visit,  leaving  Stephen  still  pacing  about,  agi- 
tated by  feelings  which  he  did  not  dare  to  show.  His 
position  was  one  to  try  the  strongest  spirit.  The  prob- 
abilities were  that  if  Mr.  Mitford  got  better  every- 
thing would  be  changed ;  and  though  when  he  heard 
from  Larkins  his  father's  order  that  Pouncefort  should 
be  sent  for,  he  had  stopped  that  communication,  he 
had  at  the  same  time  sent  for  his  man,  and  ordered 
that  everythiug  should  be  packed  up,  that  he  might 
be  ready  to  go  off  at  once,  if  that  was  what  was  going 
to  happen.  He  was  determined  he  would  not  endure 


THE  LAST  OF   THE   SQUIRE.  505 

abuse  and  loss  both.  So  that  if  the  Squire  got  well,  if 
he  saw  his  lawyer  and  carried  out  his  new  intentions, 
Stephen  had  decided  to  leave  the  house  in  an  hour's 
time,  perhaps  never  to  return ;  while  if  Mr.  Mitford 
died,  in  a  moment  all  would  be  his,  without  question 
or  remark.  The  balance  of  possibilities  was  thus  a 
very  exciting  and  uncertain  one :  to  be  reduced  to  the 
position  of  a  son  banished  from  the  paternal  home,  as 
Roger  had  been,  or  to  be  the  master  and  owner  of  all ; 
to  feel  himself  set  aside  from  all  share  in  the  matter 
by  Edmund,  who  took  the  command  naturally,  by  a 
right  which  everybody  acknowledged,  or  to  be  the 
master,  and  turn  Edmund  out.  And  all  this  hanging 
upon  a  thread,  upon  the  living  or  dying  of  the  old 
man  up-stairs !  Stephen  did  not  wish  his  father  to 
die.  It  was  something,  it  was  much,  that  he  could  re- 
sist that  temptation.  But  he  waited  with  sullen  ex- 
citement, low-flaming,  self-controlled.  He  was  angry 
that  the  London  physician  had  been  sent  for,  and  that 
he  himself  had  not  sent  for  him,  —  he  scarcely  knew 
which  was  most  annoying,  —  and  went  on  pacing  in 
an  angry  mood,  till  Edmund  and  the  doctor  should 
come  down-stairs  again,  perhaps  bringing  news. 

Edmund  saw  his  brother's  boxes  packed,  as  he 
passed  Stephen's  room  on  his  way  down-stairs,  with 
some  surprise.  He  would  have  preferred,  had  it  been 
practicable,  to  have  had  no  intercourse  with  him :  but 
that,  it  was  evident,  could  not  be.  He  went,  once 
more  slowly  and  with  reluctance,  to  the  library,  where 
he  knew  that  Stephen  was  awaiting  him.  Captain 
Mitford  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  down,  and 
turned  round,  when  Edmund  came  in.  They  stood 
and  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  silently  ;  then, 
"  My  father  is  no  better,"  Edmund  said. 


506  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  I  was  afraid  he  would  not  be,"  responded  Stephen. 
"Robson,"  he  added,  "  seems  to  have  very  little 
hope." 

"Very  little  hope.  Did  you  see  him  before  the 
seizure  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  things  are  the  same  between  you  as  when  he 
left  Mount  Travers  ?  " 

"Yes." 

After  this  brief  colloquy,  they  stood  for  another 
moment  looking  at  each  other.  To  think  that  this 
fellow  should  confront  him,  as  if  he  were  the  master, 
and  that  at  any  moment  it  might  be  he,  Stephen,  who 
was  the  master,  and  able  to  turn  Edmund  out !  This 
was  the  thought  that  burned  in  Stephen's  mind.  On 
the  chance  of  a  moment !  But  as  yet,  no  one  knew 
how  that  chance  might  turn. 


XLVII. 

THE  BREAK-UP. 

THE  long  night  passed  in  discomfort  and  gloom,  in 
broken  dozes  and  broken  conversations,  with  long 
pauses.  The  two  young  men  sat  opposite  to  each  oth- 
er, obliged  to  keep  each  other  company,  yet  with  noth- 
ing to  say.  A  jealous  alarm  prevented  Stephen  from 
retiring  to  his  room.  He  felt  that  something  might 
happen,  if  he  were  not  always  on  the  watch.  The 
Squire  might  recover  his  senses.  Pouncefort  might  ar- 
rive, and  find  some  means,  which  neither  doctor  nor 
nurse  was  capable  of,  to  get  him  round.  Who  could 
tell  what  might  happen?  Edmund  remained  up  to 
receive  the  report  of  the  doctor,  to  watch  for  the  possi- 
ble arrival  of  the  physician  from  town,  and  also  partly 
because  he  could  not  sleep.  Dr.  Robson  came  and 
went  from  the  sick-room  to  the  library  below,  throw- 
ing himself  on  the  sofa  in  the  intervals,  to  take  that 
rest  which  doctors  as  well  as  nurses  know  to  be  so  in- 
dispensable in  face  of  eventualities.  The  doctor 
thought,  in  the  breaks  of  his  sleep,  that  he  had  never 
seen  anything  more  strange  than  the  aspect  of  the  two 
brothers,  seated  each  in  his  corner,  exchanging  few 
words,  taking  little  notice  of  each  other,  while  their 
father  lay  between  life  and  death,  up-stairs.  Was  it 
feeling  ?  he  asked  himself,  or  what  was  it  ?  He,  too, 
had  seen  the  packed  and  strapped  portmanteaus  with- 
in the  open  door  of  Stephen's  room,  and  wondered 


508  THE   SECOND   SOX. 

who  was  going  away,  and  why,  and  what  had  been  the 
"  painful  discovery  "  the  patient  had  made,  which  one 
brother  had  not  mentioned,  and  the  other  had  at  once 
identified  as  one  of  the  causes  of  the  seizure.  This 
wonder  did  not  prevent  Dr.  Robson,  who  was  a  young 
man  in  robust  health,  from  sleeping,  any  more  than 
anxiety  for  his  patient  did ;  but  it  passed  through  his 
mind,  with  some  half  guess  at  the  cause,  before  he 
went  to  sleep,  with  these  two  dark  figures  before  him, 
—  one  bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  in  a  fictitious  watch- 
fulness, the  other  with  his  face  hid  in  the  shadow  of 
the  hand  which  supported  his  head.  There  was  no 
reason  why  they  should  both  sit  up.  They  seemed  to 
be  keeping  a  watch  on  each  other,  like  sentinels  of 
two  contending  parties.  Their  aspect  was  so  strange, 
and  the  consciousness  of  their  presence  so  strong,  that 
they  made  the  doctor  dream.  He  could  not  shake 
from  his  mind  the  certainty  that  they  were  there. 

The  London  doctor  came  in  the  morning,  not  hav- 
ing hurried  himself  unduly,  and  regretting,  as  he  said, 
the  great  additional  expense  that  would  have  been 
entailed  upon  the  survivors  had  a  special  train  been 
necessary.  He  arrived,  fresh  and  neat,  upon  the  ex- 
hausted and  excited  household,  and  with  a  mind  quite 
free  from  any  tortures  of  suspense.  But  his  examina- 
tion of  the  patient  did  not  come  to  much.  He  said, 
when  he  came  down-stairs,  that  it  was  impossible  to 
tell  —  the  patient  might  linger  a  day  or  two ;  he  might 
even  rally,  by  extreme  good  fortune ;  or  another  attack 
might  come  on,  and  terminate  the  matter  at  once. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  to  his  advantage 
that  he  has  survived  so  long,"  said  this  great  authority, 
with  a  meaning  which  was  comprehensible  enough. 
"  To  be  sure,"  cried  Dr.  Robsoii,  who  was  an  impru- 


THE  BREAK-UP.  509 

dent  young  man,  "  it  is  to  his  advantage  that  he  has 
survived,  or  he  would  be  dead  by  this  time." 

But  the  fact  was  that  no  more  light  was  to  be 
thrown  upon  the  question  by  science,  and  the  London 
physician  came  and  went,  as  such  great  authorities 
often  do,  iu  a  case  which  is  beyond  the  reach  of  mor- 
tal power. 

The  only  incident  in  the  miserable  lingering  day 
was  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Pouncefort,  who  had,  by  some 
mysterious  bird  of  the  air  carrying  the  matter,  or  other 
occult  agency,  found  out  that  his  client  was  dying, 
and  had  expressed  a  wish  that  he  should  be  sent  for. 
He  arrived  when  Stephen  had  permitted  himself  to 
believe  that  danger  was  over,  and  was  about  to  lie 
down  for  needful  rest.  But  the  sight  of  the  lawyer 
roused  the  heir  at  once. 

"  I  should  n't  advise  you  to  stay,"  Captain  Mitford 
observed.  "  He  '11  never  be  able  for  business  again." 

"  It 's  hard  to  tell,"  said  Mr.  Pouncefort.  "  I  've 
seen  a  man  turn  everything  upside  down  in  his  suc- 
cession, after  that  had  been  said  of  him." 

Stephen  stared  at  the  new-comer  with  glazed  and 
wearjr  eyes,  in  which  a  sullen  fire  burned  behind  the 
film  of  exhaustion ;  but  restrained  the  impulse  to  re- 
ply. He  sat  down  again,  however,  in  the  chair  which 
he  had  occupied  all  night,  determined  to  keep  this 
dangerous  visitor  in  sight.  Mr.  Pouncefort  had  no 
compassion  for  the  supplanter  who  had  been  put  into 
his  brother's  place,  in  spite  of  all  he  had  himself  been 
able  to  do  against  it.  He  asked  a  hundred  questions  : 
how  the  attack  came  on  ;  what  was  the  cause  ;  whether 
there  had  been  any  "  worry  "  at  the  bottom  of  so  sud- 
den a  seizure.  "  People  say  something  occurred  to  put 
him  out,  but  of  course  you  must  know." 


510  THE   SECOND  SON. 

"  I  don't  know ;  he  was  out  in  the  sun,  on  one  of 
those  hot  days,  —  that 's  what  the  doctor  thinks." 

"  Oh  !  that 's  what  the  doctor  thinks  ?  Robson,  is 
it?  He  ought  to  know  your  father's  constitution.  I 
should  have  thought  the  Squire  was  pretty  well  used 
to  being  out  in  the  sun." 

"  You  had  better  ask  Robson,"  said  Stephen  ;  "  he  '11 
be  here  presently ; "  and  then  there  was  a  silence  be- 
tween them. 

The  lawyer  had  a  bag  with  papers,  which  he  opened 
and  looked  over,  perhaps  ostentatiously ;  he  had  no 
desire  to  spare  the  young  man.  Stephen  was  over- 
come with  fatigue.  He  kept  dropping  into  momen- 
tary dozes,  from  which  he  started,  opening  wide  in  de- 
fiance his  red  and  heavy  eyes.  But  he  would  not  now 
go  to  bed  or  do  anything  to  refresh  himself ;  he  was 
like  a  jailer  in  attendance  upon  some  troublesome 
prisoner ;  he  would  not  let  this  new  enemy  out  of  his 
sight. 

This  suspense  lasted  till  far  on  in  the  second  night, 
when  there  was  a  sudden  stir  and  commotion  in  the 
sick-room,  and  the  doctor  was  hurriedly  called  up- 
stairs. In  a  very  short  time  the  others  were  sum- 
moned. They  stood  about  the  bed,  Mr.  Pouncefort 
placing  himself  at  the  foot,  with  an  anxious  intention 
of  catching  what  last  glimpse  of  intelligence  might 
come  into  the  eyes  of  the  dying  man.  But  it  was 
too  late  for  anything  of  the  kind.  The  Squire  had 
been  stricken  down  by  another  and  more  violent  seiz- 
ure. He  was  so  strong  in  vitality,  and  his  physical 
forces  were  so  little  impaired,  that  even  now  he  made  a 
struggle  for  his  life  ;  but  in  vain.  Presently  the  loud 
breathing  stopped.  Silence  replaced  that  awful,  in- 
voluntary throbbing  of  the  human  mechanism,  from 


THE  BREAK-UP.  511 

which  the  inspiring  force  had  gone.  Love  and  grief 
had  little  place  in  that  death-scene  ;  but  there  is  some- 
thing overawing  and  impressive  in  every  transit  from 
life  to  death.  The  two  sons  stood  side  by  side,  with- 
out a  word.  Simmons,  the  housekeeper,  half  with  a 
feminine  sense  of  what  was  becoming,  half  perhaps  with 
a  real  human  regret  for  the  master  of  so  many  years, 
sniffed  a  little  behind  the  curtain.  The  others  all 
stood  in  dead  silence,  while  the  doctor  closed  those 
staring,  troubled  eyes. 

Stephen  was  the  first  to  leave  the  room.  He  went 
straight  to  his  own,  where  his  servant  was  hanging 
about,  in  the  agitation  which  fills  a  household  at  such 
a  moment.  He  kicked  the  portmanteaus  with  his  foot, 
and  said  loudly,  "  Undo  all  that,"  before  he  closed 
the  door.  He  wanted  rest  and  sleep  above  all  things, 
but  he  could  not  refrain  from  that  one  token  of  an 
anxiety  now  laid  at  rest.  Only  Mr.  Pouucefort,  how- 
ever, took  any  notice  of  this  symbolical  action.  Stephen 
had  been  of  no  account  in  the  house  during  these  two 
days,  and  when  he  disappeared  without  even  a  good- 
night, without  a  sign  of  civility,  the  others  were  too 
much  preoccupied  to  notice.  Dr.  Robson.  was  eager  to 
get  home,  —  he  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  two  nights 
out  of  his  house  ;  and  Edmund  went  down-stairs  with 
him,  to  settle  and  arrange  everything.  The  lawyer 
stole  away  to  the  room  which  had  been  prepared  for 
him,  and  after  a  few  hours'  rest  left  the  house  in  the 
morning,  before  any  one  was  astir.  His  mission  had 
been  a  failure.  Sometimes  there  is  a  moment  of  pos- 
sibility, a  place  of  repentance,  afforded  to  a  man  at  the 
very  end  of  his  life.  But  in  this  case  there  was  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  The  wrong  done  was  done  perma- 
nently, and  all  was  now  over.  That  strange  injustice 


512  THE   SECOND  SON. 

which  lies  undeneath  the  surface  of  life,  which  gives 
the  lie  to  all  the  optimisms  of  philanthropy,  which  is 
restrained  by  no  law,  and  is  so  often  permitted  to 
establish  itself  in  absolute  impunity,  had  again  gained 
the  upper  hand.  There  was  no  appeal  to  be  made,  no 
redress  possible.  The  dead  man  might  have  repented, 
had  time  been  left  him.  But  all  the  stars  in  their 
courses  had  fought  for  the  unworthy.  Mr.  Pouncefort 
felt  this  angrily,  almost  shaking  his  fist  at  the  serene 
heavens  which  overlooked  everything,  and,  so  far  as 
appeared,  took  no  heed.  To  Edmund  the  same 
thought  came,  but  in  a  different  form,  as  he  stood  at 
his  window,  looking  out  upon  a  firmament  all  living 
with  innumerable  lights.  The  real  sufferer  was  not 
angry.  He  looked  out  with  a  profound  sadness,  yet 
with  that  half  smile  of  spectatorship  which  had  been 
habitual  to  him  all  his  life.  Perhaps  at  no  period 
would  he  have  felt  his  disinheritance  so  sharply  as 
another  man  might ;  at  this  moment  he  did  not  feel  it 
at  all.  Poor  father !  was  what  he  thought,  —  who 
had  taken  that  step  of  injustice  in  vain ;  who  had  re- 
warded the  evil-doer,  and  punished  him  to  whom  he  in- 
tended no  wrong.  It  was  hard  to  think  of  the  Squire 
as  changed  into  some  heavenly  semblance,  a  spiritual 
being  moved  by  spiritual  motives  alone.  Edmund's 
imagination  could  not  reach  so  far.  He  thought  of  his 
father  as  perhaps  suddenly  enlightened  as  to  this  irony 
of  fate,  cognizant  of  the  evil  he  had  done,  impotent  to 
amend  it,  obliged  to  bow  to  the  inexorable  fact  which 
his  own  arbitrary  will  had  created,  and  carrying  about 
the  consciousness  of  this  tremendous  mistake  and  fail- 
ure in  a  quickened  being,  to  which,  perhaps,  there 
would  no  longer  belong  the  happy  human  faculty  of 
forgetfulness.  "Would  not  that  be  hell  enough,  —  or 
purgatory,  at  least  ? 


THE  BREAK-UP.  513 

Things  went  on  at  Melcombe  without  further  change 
for  some  days.  Stephen  took  no  charge  in  respect  to 
the  funeral,  or  any  of  the  immediate  arrangements 
which  had  to  be  made.  He  stood  by,  passive,  while 
Edmund  gave  all  the  orders  and  attended  to  every- 
thing. Not  a  word  was  said  while  the  father  lay  dead 
in  the  house.  They  even  dined  together  in  silence, 
broken  only  by  a  few  conventional  phrases  from  time 
to  time.  The  brothers-in-law  were  abroad,  out  of 
reach ;  and  though  the  entire  county  came  to  the  fu- 
neral, there  were  no  relations  except  a  distant  cousin 
or  two,  and  no  one  in  the  house  to  break  the  brothers' 
tete-a-tete.  When  all  was  over,  they  returned  alone 
together  to  the  house.  Mr.  Pouncefort  was  the  princi- 
pal executor,  and  there  was  no  question  between  them 
about  any  of  the  details.  Once  more  the  family  table 
was  spread  for  the  two  brothers,  who  had  walked  side 
by  side  after  their  father's  coffin.  It  would  be  impos- 
sible to  describe  the  scarcely  contained  excitement  of 
Larkins  and  his  assistants  as  to  how  this  dinner  would 
go  off.  Stephen  solved  the  question  for  them  without 
delay.  He  came  in  first,  with  his  hands  plunged 
deeply  into  his  pockets  and  his  eyebrows  lowered  over 
his  eyes,  and  took  his  father's  place.  Instead  of  the 
restrained  and  formal  conversation  of  the  intervening 
days,  he  now  began  to  talk.  He  spoke  of  what  he 
was  going  to  do. 

"  I  '11  very  likely  go  out  and  join  the  Stathams,  for 
a  bit.  I  'm  not  fond  of  the  Continent,  but  one  does 
n't  know  what  to  do  with  one's  self,  just  at  first.  It 's 
too  early  for  Monte  Carlo  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
don't  know  what  sort  of  beastly  place  they  may  have 
got  to,  hut  Statham  's  sure  to  look  out  for  himself,  and 
get  something  or  other  to  do.  And  one  can't  have 


514  THE   SECOND  SON. 

a  lot  of  fellows  down  all  at  once  to  fill  up  the  old 
place." 

"  No,  that  would  hardly  do,"  Ediuund  answered. 

His  brother  gave  him  a  surly  look  from  underneath 
his  lowering  brows.  "  I  don't  see  why  it  should  n't  do, 
if  one  made  up  one's  mind  to  it.  I  don't  mind  gossip, 
for  my  part.  But  there  would  be  nothing  for  them  to 
do.  I  mean  to  have  a  lot  of  men  down  for  Septem- 
ber." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Edmund,  for  Stephen  had  hesitated. 

"  And  I  think,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment,  "  of 
shutting  up  the  house  till  then.  There  's  an  idle  lot 
of  servants  about."  He  had  paused  to  say  this  until  all 
but  Larkins  were  out  of  the  room.  "  I  rather  think  of 
making  a  clean  sweep.  What  does  very  well  for  an 
old  lot,  don't  you  know,  does  n't  do  when  a  man  's 
young.  So  I  thought  may  be  it  would  n't  be  a  bad 
plan  to  —  let  it,  perhaps,  for  a  month  or  two,  or  else 
shut  up  the  house." 

"  To  let  it  —  for  a  month  or  two ! "  exclaimed  Ed- 
mund, in  consternation. 

"  Well,  quantities  of  people  do  ;  but  I  don't  say 
I  've  made  up  my  mind  to  that.  Only,  I  '11  either 
take  that  course,  or  else  shut  up.  It  's  dull  enough 
here,  Heaven  knows.  I  was  thinking,  perhaps  if  you 
could  make  it  convenient  —  when  it  suits,  don't  you 
know  —  that  is,  as  soon  as  you  can  manage  it  —  to 
clear  out." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  had  meant  to  tell  you.  I 
think  of  going  to-morrow." 

"All  right,"  rejoined  Stephen.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
put  on  the  screw,  but  it's  always  best  that  fellows 
should  understand  each  other,  don't  you  know,  from 
the  first." 

"  Much  the  best,"  Edmund  said. 


XLVIII. 

THE    MINGLED    THREAD. 

THESE  were  almost  the  last  words  which  passed  at 
this  period  between  Captain  Mitford  of  Melcombe  and 
his  brother.  Stephen  left  within  a  few  days,  having 
succeeded  so  well  in  clearing  the  house  that  the  ser- 
vants forestalled  him  by  giving  their  demission  en 
masse,  headed  by  Mr.  Larkins  and  Mrs.  Simmons, 
whom  Stephen's  speech  about  the  idle  lot,  duly  re- 
ported by  the  equally  offended  Larkins,  had  wounded 
to  the  quick.  He  was  obliged  to  leave  the  place  in  the 
hands  of  some  of  the  lower  drudges  of  the  kitchen,  who 
had  no  feelings,  and  were  delighted  to  succeed  to  the 
positions  vacated  by  their  betters ;  and  to  have  the 
house  set  up  anew,  with  expensive  menials,  supplied 
by  a  London  agent,  when  he  returned.  He  failed  in 
ousting  the  Fords,  for  the  excellent  reason  that  they 
had  finally  decided  to  take  advantage  of  his  first  hasty 
dismissal ;  so  that  his  emissaries  found  nothing  but 
an  empty  house,  when  they  went  to  carry  his  decision 
into  effect.  Stephen  was  not  aware  that  he  escaped 
an  action  for  wages  and  board  wages,  which  Ford  was 
bent  on  bringing  against  him,  only  by  means  of  Ed- 
mund's entreaties  and  the  compensation  he  offered, 
in  order  that  the  family  name  should  not  be  dragged 
through  the  mire,  in  public  at  least.  But  notwith- 
standing these  efforts,  the  facts  of  the  case  got 
breathed  about  in  the  county,  creating  not  only  a 


516  THE   SECOND  SON. 

strong  feeling  against  the  new  lord  of  Melcombe,  but, 
what  he  dreaded  still  more,  a  wave  of  riotous  ridicule, 
such  as  went  far,  sweeping  through  half  the  mess- 
rooms  in  the  country  in  echoes  of  inextinguishable 
laughter :  "  Heard  of  Mitford  of  the  Red  Roans,  — 
how  he  was  sold?  Thought  he  had  got  a  simpleton 
in  hand,  that  knew  no  better  ;  but,  by  Jove  !  out  sac 
marched,  colors  flying,  and  left  him  plante-la  !  "  The 
other  tales  about  him,  which  roused  a  graver  indigna- 
tion, —  how  he  had  been  the  means  of  his  brother 
Roger's  death,  and,  by  a  sudden  discovery  of  his  ridic- 
ulous adventures  and  shameful  conduct,  of  his  father's, 
—  though  these  rumors  were  bad  enough,  were  not, 
either  in  the  estimation  of  his  special  public  or  in  his 
own,  so  overwhelming  as  the  story  of  Lily's  escape  and 
the  ridicule  of  his  failure.  Even  Statham  and  Mark- 
ham,  his  brothers-in-law,  "  roared  "  as  they  described 
it,  at  Steve's  absurd  position. 

"  But  I  'd  cut  the  whole  concern,  if  I  were  you,  for 
a  year  or  two,  old  fellow,"  Statham  said.  "•  Don't  go 
back  there  this  year.  Have  a  go  at  the  big  game,  or 
something." 

"  Try  Africa,"  said  Markham. 

"  By  Jove  !  I  '11  do  neither  the  one  nor  the  other ! 
What  are  you  talking  of  ?  I  '11  see  you  all  at  —  Jericho, 
first !  And  if  you  don't  care  to  come  to  Melcombe  for 
September,  —  why,  you  can  try  Africa  yourselves," 
Stephen  said. 

This  somewhat  changed  the  ideas  of  the  brothers-in- 
law,  who  were  not  averse  to  coming  to  Melcombe  for 
the  partridges.  They  endeavored  to  make  their  wives 
laugh,  too,  at  the  story  of  Lily,  with  but  partial  suc- 
cess ;  for  women  are  certainly  destitute  of  a  fine  sense 
of  humor. 


THE   MINGLED   THREAD.  517 

"  It  was  odious  of  Stephen,  beyond  anything ! " 
Lady  Statham  said  ;  "  but  still,  that  little  set-up  thing  ! 
—  what  did  she  expect,  I  wonder  ?  "  And,  "  It  must 
have  been  her  own  fault,"  Amy  said.  Nina  told  her 
little  tale  with  the  same  gravity,  without  seeing  the  fun. 
"  /  knew  Stephen  was  after  Lily,  when  he  used  to  go 
out  in  the  park  after  dinner.  What  should  he  go  out 
in  the  park  for,  if  he  was  not  after  somebody?  To 
smoke  his  cigar !  Oh !  as  if  a  man  went  out  like  that 
only  to  smoke  his  cigar !  Simmons  always  shook  her 
head.  She  used  to  say  a  gentleman  was  up  to  no  good, 
when  he  went  out  in  the  evenings.  Would  you  let 
Statham  go  out  like  that,  if  you  knew  there  was  some- 
body at  the  West  Lodge,  Geraldine?" 

"  Bertie 's  got  his  smoking-room,"  said  Lady  Stat- 
ham, indignant,  "  if  there  were  twenty  West  Lodges. 
But  I  do  think  poor  papa  was  to  blame  about  the  boys, 
never  letting  them  smoke  at  home." 

"  Boys  are  so  ready  to  go  wrong,"  sighed  Amy,  who 
was  ten  years  younger  than  her  brothers.  Then  the 
party  melted  away,  dispersing  in  different  directions, 
and  leaving  only  Nina,  who  knew  better  than  any  one 
how  much  neglected  the  boys  had  been,  and  how  nat- 
ural it  was  that  they  should  stray  to  the  West  Lodge, 
while  they  smoked  their  cigars. 

Stephen  came  back  in  September,  and  found  his 
house  perfectly  established  with  fine  footmen  from 
London,  and  not  an  old  face  to  remind  him  of  the 
past.  His  friends  arrived  soon  after,  filling  the  house. 
But  though  the  covers  were  in  very  good  order,  and 
the  birds  abundant,  it  was  not  a  successful  perform- 
ance, on  the  whole.  Even  the  Tredgolds  had  other 
engagements,  when  he  asked  them  to  dinner.  When 
the  Stathams  and  the  Markharns  came,  there  was  one 


518  THE   SECOND  SON. 

entertainment  which  did  well,  and  that  was  a  garden- 
party,  at  which  nobody  was  compelled  to  pay  any  par- 
ticular attention  to  the  master  of  the  house.  Other- 
wise the  county  cut  him,  to  his  intense  astonishment 
and  rage.  And  after  that  he  took  Statham's  advice, 
and  went  abroad,  —  not  to  Africa,  in  search  of  big 
game,  which  would  have  been  the  best  thing,  but  to 
Monte  Carlo  and  other  resorts  of  the  same  kind. 
Meantime,  the  London  servants  and  the  new  estab- 
lishment had  cost  him  for  three  months  more  money 
than  the  old  Squire  had  spent  in  a  couple  of  years. 
Altogether,  Stephen's  affairs  were  not  prosperous,  nor 
his  prospects  bright.  But,  110  doubt,  if  he  stays  away 
for  a  time,  and  keeps  his  estate  at  nurse,  and  especially 
if  he  marries  well,  and  brings  home  a  wife  acceptable 
to  the  county,  the  weight  of  permanence  and  continua- 
tion will  tell  in  his  favor,  and  Captain  Mitford  will  be 
received,  if  not  with  open  arms,  at  least  back  again 
into  a  tolerable  place. 

Edmund  left  Melcombe  the  morning  after  his  fa- 
ther's funeral.  He  did  not  see  Stephen  again.  He 
made  arrangements  for  the  removal  of  all  his  special 
belongings,  and  went  away  without  much  regret  from 
the  house  that  should  have  been  his  home.  There  ai-e 
some  who  feel  more  than  others  the  loss  of  houses  and 
lands ;  and  there  are  some  who  tear  themselves  with 
difficulty  from  the  walls  that  have  been  their  shelter  all 
their  life.  In  both  points  Edmund  was  a  little  at  fault. 
He  felt  no  despair  at  the  loss  of  his  inheritance ;  he 
had  never  thought  of  it  as  his.  All  the  emotion  he 
had  on  the  subject  he  had  spent  when  Roger  was  sent 
away,  and  perhaps  the  only  pang  that  had  moved  him 
concerning  his  own  share  of  the  loss  was  when  Roger, 
unaware  of  what  had  passed,  had  anticipated  for  Ed« 


THE  MINGLED   THREAD.  519 

niund  the  heirship  he  had  himself  lost.  Edmund  had 
experienced  a  constriction  of  his  heart  when  his  brother 
had  indulged  in  that  half-melancholy,  half-smiling  pic- 
ture of  what  he  believed  was  to  be  :  himself  with  Lily, 
not  happy  perhaps,  after  the  ordinary  meaning  of  the 
word,  yet  feeling  his  only  possibility  of  life  to  be  by 
her  side  ;  and  Edmund  and  his  Elizabeth  in  Melcombe, 
the  centres  of  a  wider  existence.  Tears,  which  had  not 
been  drawn  from  Edmund's  eyes  by  his  own  deposi- 
tion, rose  at  the  thought  of  that  talk  of  things  that 
were  not  to  be. 

He  went,  after  he  had  left  the  house,  to  the  cor- 
ner of  the  parish  church  in  which  was  the  Melcombe 
vault.  He  was  not  unmindful  of  his  father,  either. 
What  disappointments,  what  self-deception,  what  vain 
anticipations,  never  to  be  realized,  were  shut  up  there 
in  the  darkness,  in  that  gloomy  place  where  the  ashes 
of  the  Mitfords  were  kept  from  mingling  with  com- 
mon dust !  Edmund  could  not  think  of  any  failure 
of  his  own,  in  the  presence  of  the  failure  of  all  their 
plans  and  wishes.  He  stood  leaning  upon  the  old 
brick  wall,  with  his  feet  among  the  rank  herbage  ; 
then,  with  an  ache  in  his  heart  to  leave  there  all  that 
had  been  Roger,  all  the  human  hopes  and  wishes  that 
were  never  to  be  fulfilled,  and  with  that  ache  of  won- 
der which  is  in  all  our  hearts  as  to  what  they  know  of 
us  who  have  left  us,  in  the  mystery  of  their  new  exist- 
ence, Edmund  turned  away,  and  set  out  upon  his  own. 
Happy  Edmund  in  his  mourning,  in  his  deprivation, 
with  his  home  shut  against  him,  and  all  natural  expec- 
tation cut  off !  He  passed  through  these  troubles 
lightly  enough,  having  his  own  happiness  to  fall  back 
upon,  which  waited  serenely  for  him  after  all  was 
over  ;  holding  open  the  gates  of  another  paradise,  the 


520  THE  SECOND  SON. 

individual  inheritance,  which  is  for  every  man  who  has 
a  centre  of  love  to  turn  to,  and  a  meet  companion  await- 
ing him  there. 

Stephen,  as  it  turned  out,  had  been  of  the  greatest 
use  to  the  household  at  Mount  Travers,  by  the  fire- 
brand he  had  thrown  into  the  midst  of  it.  Mrs.  Tra- 
vers did  not,  indeed,  recover  from  the  shock  all  at  once ; 
at  least,  she  did  not  relinquish  the  pleasure  of  taking 
up  that  exhausted  firebrand,  and  thrusting  it  at  Eliza- 
beth, as  a  sort  of  offensive  weapon,  inflicting  a  wound 
which,  when  she  saw  how  it  hurt,  the  old  lady  wept 
over  and  kissed  to  make  it  well,  with  an  alternation  of 
reproach  and  conciliation  which  was  not  without  its 
enjoyment.  Elizabeth,  delivered  from  the  incessant 
strain  of  keeping  this  secret  from  her  aunt,  was  now 
free  to  use  what  means  she  could  to  set  the  wrong 
right,  —  a  thing  which  in  her  ignorance  she  had  sup- 
posed to  be  attended  by  endless  difficulties,  but  which, 
with  Edmund's  help  and  backing  up,  became  the  eas- 
iest matter  in  the  world.  Before  they  were  married 
Elizabeth  settled  upon  Mrs.  Travers  the  great  house 
on  the  hill,  with  its  plate-glass  windows  and  all  its  lux- 
uries, with  an  income  sufficient  to  make  the  keeping  up 
of  the  establishment  possible  to  the  widow.  This  was  a 
serious  diminution  of  her  wealth,  but  Edmund  liked  it 
all  the  better.  They  were  still  rich  enough  for  all  their 
desires.  They  had  the  luck  to  get  possession  of  an  old 
house  which  had  been  the  Melcombe  dower-house,  a 
picturesque,  old-fashioned  place,  which  had  passed  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  Mitfords  several  generations  before, 
and  now  came  suddenly  into  the  market,  to  the  great 
satisfaction  of  the  disinherited  son.  We  will  not  deny 
that  it  gave  Elizabeth  a  pang  to  think  of  her  husband 
settling  down  in  the  same  county,  on  a  little  bit  of 


THE   MINGLED    THREAD.  521 

property  so  much  inferior  to  Melcombe,  and  in  a  house 
which  was  nothing  but  a  dependency  of  the  family 
home  possessed  by  his  younger  brother.  But  Edmund 
only  laughed  at  this  feminine  grudge. 

"  Whatever  he  does,  he  must  always  carry  that 
mark  of  cadency,"  he  said.  "  It  frightened  my  poor 
father  almost  out  of  changing  his  will,  but  it  does  not 
seem  to  impress  you,  Lizzy."  By  this  time,  our  young 
man  had  got  so  familiar  with  his  own  good  fortune, 
and  so  possessed  by  the  ease  of  his  happiness,  and  felt 
it  so  difficult  to  realize  that  she  had  not  always  be- 
longed to  him,  that  he  had  forgotten  that  superlative 
sentiment  of  his  about  the  name  of  Elizabeth,  and 
called  her  Lizzy,  like  other  people,  with  the  best  grace 
in  the  world. 

"  If  that  were  the  only  sign  of  cadency,  as  you  call 
it,  I  should  not  care  much  about  it,"  said  his  wife,  in- 
dignantly ;  "  but  when  I  think  what  you  are,  Edmund, 
and  what  he  is  "  — 

"  I  am  no  such  great  things,  if  I  had  not  you  to 
back  me  up.  But  whatever  poor  Steve  has,  he  can't 
get  rid  of  that  little  mark.  I  must  be  the  head  of  the 
family,  though  I  have  nothing,  and  he  has  all." 

"  And  you  say  '  poor  Steve  ' !  "  cried  Elizabeth, 
with  a  flash  of  disdain  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  my  dearest,"  Edmund  said,  "  poor  Steve. 
And  when  he  thinks,  as  he  must  do  now  and  then,  you 
may  be  sure  he  feels  it,  too." 

Mrs.  Mitford  shook  her  head  indignantly  (it  was 
very  certain  that  she  was  Mrs.  Mitford,  and  that  the 
lady  of  Melcombe,  when  there  might  come  to  be  one, 
could  be  nothing  but  Mrs.  Stephen),  and  perhaps  hers, 
though  the  less  generous,  was  the  truer  estimate. 
Stephen  had  sundry  pricks  to  put  up  with,  but  in  the 


522  THE  SECOND  SON. 

end,  no  doubt,  people  would  forget,  and  he  would  re- 
main the  most  important  personage  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  many  persons  who  forgot  that  old  story.  It  is 
much  to  be  doubted  whether  Edmund  himself,  though 
he  produced  it  laughing,  to  smooth  down  his  wife's  in- 
dignation, thought  very  much  of  the  mark  of  cadency, 
or  of  the  fact  that  he  himself  bore  the  family  coat 
without  a  difference.  What  pleased  him  most  was 
that  he  had  possession  of  certain  simpler  things  ;  that 
is  to  say,  that  he  had  got  the  wife  he  wanted,  and  the 
happiness  which  he  had  long  despaired  of,  and  a  home 
such  as  he  had  dreamed  of,  but  up  to  his  marriage 
had  never  known.  He  thought  these  things  were 
enough  for  a  man,  with  or  without  the  position  which 
befits  the  head  of  the  family ;  and  a  number  of  per- 
sons, we  hope,  will  think  that  Edmund  was  right. 

Lily  Ford  remained  Mrs.  Travers's  companion,  and 
a  most  congenial  one,  —  more  congenial  than  Eliza- 
beth, though  it  was  not  necessary  to  say  so.  When 
the  old  lady  received  the  deed  of  gift  which  reinstated 
her  in  full  possession  of  what  her  husband  ought  to 
have  left  her,  she  accepted  it  with  difficulty  and  much 
resistance,  and  would  really  have  preferred  to  keep 
her  grievance  instead,  which  was  a  thing  that  in- 
volved no  responsibilities.  She  managed  to  retain  a 
little  of  that,  however,  by  making  her  will  instantly, 
and  leaving  her  property  again  to  Elizabeth.  "  What 
could  I  do?"  she  said.  "Of  course,  whatever  I 
wished,  she  left  me  no  alternative,  after  the  step  she 
took."  The  plate-glass  windows  were  all  shut  up  for 
a  long  time,  and  the  house  stood  blindly  staring  out 
upon  the  landscape,  with  no  eyes  to  see  it,  while  Mrs. 
Travers  and  her  companion  went  abroad.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  more  completely  en. 


THE  MINGLED  THREAD.        523 

joyed  these  travels.  Lily,  with  the  honest,  peasant 
foundation  of  her  character,  found  it  indispensable  to 
give  an  equivalent  for  what  she  received,  by  bestowing 
double  care  and  attention  upon  the  old  lady,  who  was 
not  her  mistress,  but  yet  depended  upon  her  for  a 
great  part  of  the  comfort  of  her  life.  As  she  was 
quick  and  intelligent,  and  soon  able  to  make  her  smat- 
tering of  boarding-school  French  useful,  and  pretty, 
and  well  dressed,  and  pleasant  to  behold,  and  incapable 
of  conceiving  anything  happier  or  more  elevated  than 
the  little  course  of  commonplace  tours,  which  were  to 
both  the  most  exciting  of  travels,  she  satisfied  Mrs. 
Travers's  every  requirement  as  a  companion.  No 
mother  and  daughter  could  have  been  more  happy  to- 
gether. To  travel  about  in  first-class  carriages,  to  live 
in  grand  hotels,  to  be  looked  up  to  as  one  of  the 
simple  tourist  ladies,  to  whom  every  innkeeper  was  ob- 
sequious, filled  Lily  with  an  elation  which  had,  after 
all,  something  more  in  it  than  personal  aggrandize- 
ment ;  it  was  the  ideal  after  which  she  had  sighed,  the 
plan  that  pleased  her  childish  thought.  Perhaps  the 
aspiration  to  be  a  lady,  in  the  acceptation  of  the  word 
which  occurs  to  a  gamekeeper's  daughter,  —  to  live 
among  beautiful  things,  according  to  what  her  imagi- 
nation holds  for  beautiful ;  to  have  the  leisure,  the 
grace,  the  softness,  the  brightness  of  ladyhood  about 
her,  instead  of  inhabiting  a  cottage  and  working  at 
needlework  for  a  living,  —  is  not,  after  all,  an  aspira- 
tion to  be  despised.  It  was  the  best  thing  she  knew, 
just  as  traveling  on  the  Continent  was  the  finest  occu- 
pation she  knew,  the  thing  which  the  finest  people  did. 
She  would  not  have  bought  that  elevation,  as  she  had 
proved,  in  anything  but  an  honest  way.  Meantime, 
her  father  and  mother  had  charge  of  Mount  Travers, 


524  THE  SECOND  SON. 

Mrs.  Ford  occupying  the  fine  position  of  housekeeper, 
while  the  "  ladies  "  —  oh  !  the  delight  of  that  word, 
which  the  mother,  with  profound  self-abnegation, 
turned  over  in  her  mouth  like  a  sweet  morsel,  as  she 
said  it  —  were  absent  on  their  tour.  Lily  had  now  a 
little  fortune  of  her  own,  —  the  money  which  Roger 
had  meant  to  settle  upon  her  when  she  should  be  his 
wife.  She  was  not  sure  that  she  could  have  chosen 
anything  more  desirable  for  herself,  had  she  been  per- 
mitted to  choose  her  own  fate. 

Poor  Roger !  This  was  all  his  foolish  love  had 
come  to,  —  the  love  which  he  knew  to  be  foolish ; 
which  had  cost  him  his  inheritance,  and,  in  a  manner, 
his  life.  Was  not  his  fate,  perhaps,  the  best  after  all, 
—  to  escape  from  all  the  net-work  of  misery  which 
would  have  caught  his  feet,  the  unsuitable  companion- 
ship which  never  could  have  satisfied  his  mind,  and  to 
begin  over  again  in  a  world  where  at  least  the  same 
mistakes  cannot  be  possible  ?  But  it  is  hard  for  men 
to  think  so,  to  whom  it  must  always  seem  a  better 
thing  to  fulfill  the  mortal  course  set  before  them, 
through  whatever  pains  and  troubles,  and  live  out  their 
life. 


of  fiction 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 

4  PARK  ST.,  BOSTON  ;  11  E.  I7TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.     Illustrated.     I2mo $1.50 

Marjorie  Daw  and  Other  People.     I2mo 1.50 

Marjorie  Daw  and  Other  Stories.     Riverside  Aldine 

Series.     i6mo i.oo 

Prudence  Palfrey.     I2mo 1.50 

The  Queen  of  Sheba.     I2mo 1.50 

The  Stillwater  Tragedy.     I2mo 1.50 

Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

Complete  Works.     In  ten  uniform  volumes,  crown  8vo. 
A  new  and  cheap  Edition,  in  attractive  binding. 

The  Improvisatore ;  or,  Life  in  Italy i.oo 

The  Two  Baronesses i.oo 

O.  T. ;  or,  Life  in  Denmark i.oo 

Only  a  Fiddler I.oo 

In  Spain  and  Portugal i.oo 

A  Poet's  Bazaar i.oo 

Pictures  of  Travel i.oo 

The  Story  of  my  Life.     With  Portrait i.oo 

Wonder  Stories  told  for  Children.     Illustrated  .     .     .  i.oo 

Stories  and  Tales.     Illustrated i.oo 

The  set 10.00 

William  Henry  Bishop. 

Detmold  :  A  Romance.    "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  1.25 

The  House  of  a  Merchant  Prince.     i2mo 1.50 

Choy  Susan,  and  other  Stories.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Golden  Justice.     i6mo 1.25 

Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. 

Works.  American  Edition,  sanctioned  by  the  author, 
and  translated  by  Professor  R.  B.  Anderson,  of  the 
University  of  Wisconsin. 

The  Bridal  March,  and  Other  Stories.     i6mo     ...     i.oo 


2  Works  of  Fiction  Published  by 

Captain  Mansana,  and  Other  Stories.     i6mo      .     .     .  $1.00 

Magnhild.     i6mo i.oo 

Complete  Works,  seven  volumes  in  three,  ismo. 
The  set 4.50 

Alice  Gary. 

Pictures  of  Country  Life.     I2mo 1.50 

John  Esten  Cooke. 

My  Lady  Pokahontas.     i6mo 1.25 

James  Fenimore  Cooper. 

Complete  Works.  New  Household  Edition,  in  attrac- 
tive binding.  With  Introductions  to  many  of  the 
volumes  by  Susan  Fenimore  Cooper,  and  Illustra- 
tions. In  thirty-two  volumes,  i6mo. 

Precaution.  The  Prairie. 

The  Spy.  Wept  of  Wish-ton-Wish. 

The  Pioneers.  The  Water  Witch. 

The  Pilot.  The  Bravo. 

Lionel  Lincoln.  The  Heidenmauer. 

Last  of  the  Mohicans.  The  Headsman. 

Red  Rover.  The  Monikins. 

Homeward  Bound.  Miles  Wallingford. 

Home\s  Found.  The  Red  Skins. 

The  Pathfinder.  The  Chainbearer. 

Mercedes  of  Castile.  Satanstoe. 

The  Deerslayer.  The  Crater. 

The  Two  Admirals.  Tack  Tier. 

Wing  and  Wing.  The  Sea  Lions. 

Wyandotte.  Oak  Openings. 

Afloat  and  Ashore.  The  Ways  of  the  Hour. 

(Each  volume  sold  separately.} 

Each  volume i.oo 

The  set 32.00 

New  Fireside  Edition.   With  forty-five  original  Illustra- 
tions.    In  sixteen  volumes,  I2mo.    The  set    ...  20.00 
(Sold  only  in  sets.) 

Sea  Tales.    New  Household  Edition,  containing  Intro- 
ductions by  Susan  Fenimore  Cooper.     Illustrated. 
First  Series.    Including  — 

The  Pilot.  The  Red  Rover. 

The  Water  Witch.  The  Two  Admirals. 

Wing  and  Wing. 

Second  Series.     Including  — 

The  Sea  Lions.  Afloat  and  Ashore. 


Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company.  3 

Jack  Tier.  Miles  Wallingford. 

The  Crater. 

Each  set,  5  vols.  i6mo $5-OO 

Leather-Stocking  Tales.  New  Household  Edition,  con- 
taining Introductions  by  Susan  Fenimore  Cooper. 
Illustrated.  In  five  volumes,  i6mo. 

The  Deerslayer.  The  Pioneers. 

The  Pathfinder.  The  Prairie. 

Last  of  the  Mohicans. 

The  set 5.00 

Cooper  Stories ;  being  Narratives  of  Adventure  se- 
lected from  his  Works.  With  Illustrations  by  F.  O. 
C.  Darley.  In  three  volumes,  i6mo,  each  ....  1.00 

Charles  Egbert  Craddock. 

In  the  Tennessee  Mountains.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains.     l6mo  .  1.25 

Down  the  Ravine.    Illustrated.     i6mo i.oo 

In  the  Clouds.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Story  of  Keedon  Bluffs.     l6mo i.oo 

Thomas  Frederick  Crane. 

Italian  Popular  Tales.  Translated  from  the  Italian. 
With  Introduction  and  a  Bibliography.  8vo  .  .  .  2.50 

F.  Marion  Crawford. 

To  Leeward.     i6mo 1.25 

A  Roman  Singer.     i6mo 1.25 

An  American  Politician.     i6mo 1.25 

Paul  Patoff.     Crown  8vo 1.50 

Maria  S.  Cummins. 

The  Lamplighter.     12010 1.50 

El  Fureidis.     I2mo 1.50 

Mabel  Vaughan.     I2mo 1.50 

Parke  Danforth. 

Not  in  the  Prospectus.    i6mo 1.25 

Daniel  De  Foe. 

Robinson  Crusoe.     Illustrated.     i6mo I.oo 

P.  Deming. 

Adirondack  Stories.     "  Little  Classic "  style.     i8mo  .       .75 
Tompkins  and  other  Folks.    "  Little  Classic "  style. 
i8mo i.oo 

Thomas  De  Quincey. 

Romances  and  Extravaganzas.     I2mo 1.50 

Narrative  and  Miscellaneous  Papers.     I2mo      .    .    .     1.50 
V 


4  Works  of  Fiction  Published  by 

Charles  Dickens. 

Complete  Works.  Illustrated  Library  Edition.  With 
Introductions  by  E.  P.  Whipple.  Containing  Illus- 
trations by  Cruikshank,  Phiz,  Seymour,  Leech,  Mac- 
lise,  and  others,  on  steel,  to  which  are  added  designs 
of  Darley  and  Gilbert,  in  all  over  550.  In  twenty- 
nine  volumes,  I2mo. 

The  Pickwick  Papers,  2  vols.  Dombey  and  Son,  2  vols. 
Nicholas  Nickleby,  2  vols.  Pictures  from  Italy,  and 
Oliver  Twist.  American  Notes. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  and  Re-   Bleak  House,  2  vols. 
printed  Pieces,  2  vols.         Little  Dorrit,  2  vols. 
Barnaby  Rudge,  and  Hard     David  Copperfield,  2  vols. 

Times,  2  vols.  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  2  vols.      Great  Expectations. 
Our  Mutual  Friend,  2  vols.     Edwin      Drood,      Master 
Uncommercial  Traveller.  Humphrey's  Clock,  and 

A  Child's  History  of  Eng-          Other  Pieces. 

land,  and  Other  Pieces.       Sketches  by  Boz. 
Christmas  Books. 

Each  volume #1.50 

The  set.     With  Dickens  Dictionary.     30  vols.    .45.00 
Christmas  Carol.     Illustrated.    8vo,  full  gilt ....     2.50 

The  Same.    32010 75 

Christmas  Books.    Illustrated.     I2mo 2.00 

Charlotte  Dunning. 

A  Step  Aside.     i6mo      .    .     .    „ 1.25 

Edgar  Fawcett. 

A  Hopeless  Case.  "  Little  Classic "  style.  i8mo  .  1.25 
A  Gentleman  of  Leisure.  "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  i.oo 
An  Ambitious  Woman.  12010 1.50 

Fenelon. 

Adventures  of  Telemachus.     I3mo 2,25 

Mrs.  James  A.  Field. 

High-Lights.     i6mo 1.25 

Harford  Flemming. 

A  Carpet  Knight.     i6mo 1.25 

Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouque. 

Undine,  Sintram  and  his  Companions,  etc  32010  .  .  .75 
Undine  and  other  Tales.  Illustrated.  i6mo  .  .  .  i.oo 


Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company.  5 

Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe. 

Wilhelm   Meister.     Translated  by  Thomas   Carlyle. 

Portrait  of  Goethe.     In  two  volumes.     I2mo  .    .     .  $3.00 
The  Tale  and  Favorite  Poems.     32010 75 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield.     Handy-Volume  Edition.    321110, 

gilt  top i.oo 

The  Same.    "  Riverside  Classics."   Illustrated.   i6mo     i.oo 
Jeanie  T.  Gould  (Mrs.  Lincoln). 

Marjorie's  Quest.     Illustrated.     I2mo 1.50 

Thomas  Chandler  Haliburton. 

The   Clockmaker ;  or,  The  Sayings  and  Doings  of 

Samuel  Slick  of  Slickville.    Illustrated.     i6mo     .      i.oo 

A.  S.  Hardy. 

But  Yet  a  Woman.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Wind  of  Destiny.     i6mo 1.25 

Miriam  Coles  Harris. 

Rutledge.  A  Perfect  Adonis. 

The  Sutherlands.  Missy. 

Frank  Warrington.  Happy-Go-Lucky. 

St.  Philips.  Phoebe. 

Richard  Vandermarck 

Each  volume,  i6mo 1.25 

Louie's  Last  Term  at  St.  Mary's.     i6mo i.oo 

Bret  Harte. 

The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  Other  Sketches.  i6mo  1.50 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  Other  Stories. 

Riverside  Aldine  Series.     i6mo i.oo 

Tales  of  the  Argonauts,  and  Other  Stories.  i6mo  .  1.50 
Thankful  Blossom.  "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  .  1.25 
Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  A  Play.  i8mo  ....  i.oo 

The  Story  of  a  Mine.     i8mo i.oo 

Drift  from  Two  Shores.     i8mo 1.25 

Twins  of  Table  Mountain,  etc.     i8mo 1.25 

Flip,  and  Found  at  Blazing  Star.     i8mo i.oo 

In  the   Carquinez  Woods.     i8mo i.oo 

On  the  Frontier.  "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  .  .  I.oo 
Works.  Rearranged,  with  an  Introduction  and  a 

Portrait.     In  six  volumes,  crown  8vo. 
Poetical  Works,  and  the  drama,  "  Two  Men  of  Sandy 

Bar,"  with  an  Introduction  and  Portrait. 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  Other  Stories. 


4  Works  of  Fiction  Published  by 

Charles  Dickens. 

Complete  Works.  Illustrated  Library  Edition.  With 
Introductions  by  E.  P.  Whipple.  Containing  Illus- 
trations by  Cruikshank,  Phiz,  Seymour,  Leech,  Mac- 
lise,  and  others,  on  steel,  to  which  are  added  designs 
of  Darley  and  Gilbert,  in  all  over  550.  In  twenty- 
nine  volumes,  I2mo. 

The  Pickwick  Papers,  2  vols.  Dombey  and  Son,  2  vols. 
Nicholas  Nickleby,  2  vols.  Pictures  from  Italy,  and 
Oliver  Twist.  American  Notes. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  and  Re-   Bleak  House,  2  vols. 
printed  Pieces,  2  vols.         Little  Dorrit,  2  vols. 
Barnaby  Rudge,  and  Hard     David  Copperfield,  2  vols. 

Times,  2  vols.  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  2  vols.      Great  Expectations. 
Our  Mutual  Friend,  2  vols.     Edwin      Drood,      Master 
Uncommercial  Traveller.  Humphrey's  Clock,  and 

A  Child's  History  of  Eng-          Other  Pieces. 

land,  and  Other  Pieces.       Sketches  by  Boz. 
Christmas  Books. 

Each  volume #1-50 

The  set.     With  Dickens  Dictionary.     30  vols.    .45.00 
Christmas  Carol.     Illustrated.    8vo,  full  gilt ....     2.50 

The  Same.    321110 75 

Christmas  Books.    Illustrated.     12010 2.00 

Charlotte  Dunning. 

A  Step  Aside.     i6mo 1.25 

Edgar  Fawcett. 

A  Hopeless  Case.  "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  .  1.25 
A  Gentleman  of  Leisure.  "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  i.oo 
An  Ambitious  Woman.  i2mo 1.50 

F^nelon. 

Adventures  of  Telemachus.     I2«io 2,25 

Mrs.  James  A.  Field. 

High- Lights.     i6mo 1.25 

Harford  Flemming. 

A  Carpet  Knight.     i6mo 1.25 

Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouque. 

Undine,  Sintram  and  his  Companions,  etc  321110  .  .  .75 
Undine  and  other  Tales.  Illustrated.  i6mo  .  .  .  i.oo 


Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company.  5 

Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe. 

Wilhelm   Meister.     Translated  by  Thomas   Carlyle. 

Portrait  of  Goethe.     In  two  volumes.     I2mo  .    .     .  $3.00 
The  Tale  and  Favorite  Poems.    32010 75 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield.     Handy-Volume  Edition.    321110, 

gilt  top l.oo 

The  Same.    "  Riverside  Classics."   Illustrated.   i6mo     i.oo 

Jeanie  T.  Gould  (Mrs.  Lincoln). 

Marjorie's  Quest.     Illustrated.     i2mo 1.50 

Thomas  Chandler  Haliburton. 

The  Clockmaker ;  or,  The  Sayings  and  Doings  of 

Samuel  Slick  of  Slickville.    Illustrated.     i6mo     .      i.oo 

A.  S.  Hardy. 

But  Yet  a  Woman.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Wind  of  Destiny.     i6mo 1.25 

Miriam  Coles  Harris. 

Rutledge.  A  Perfect  Adonis. 

The  Sutherlands.  Missy. 

Frank  Warrington.  Happy-Go-Lucky. 

St.  Philips.      '  Phoebe. 

Richard  Vandermarck 

Each  volume,  i6mo 1.25 

Louie's  Last  Term  at  St.  Mary's.     i6mo i.oo 

Bret  Harte. 

The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  Other  Sketches.  i6mo  1.50 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  Other  Stories. 

Riverside  Aldine  Series.     i6mo i.oo 

Tales  of  the  Argonauts,  and  Other  Stories.  i6mo  .  1.50 
Thankful  Blossom.  "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  .  1.25 
Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar.  A  Play.  i8mo  ....  i.oo 

The  Story  of  a  Mine.     i8mo i.oo 

Drift  from  Two  Shores.     i8mo 1.25 

Twins  of  Table  Mountain,  etc.     i8mo 1.25 

Flip,  and  Found  at  Blazing  Star.     i8mo i.oo 

In  the   Carquinez  Woods.     i8mo i.oo 

On  the  Frontier.  "  Little  Classic  "  style.  i8mo  .  .  i.oo 
Works.  Rearranged,  with  an  Introduction  and  a 

Portrait.     In  six  volumes,  crown  8vo. 
Poetical  Works,  and  the  drama,  "  Two  Men  of  Sandy 

Bar,"  with  an  Introduction  and  Portrait. 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  Other  Stories. 


6  Works  of  Fiction  Published  by 

Stories  and  Condensed  Novels. 
Frontier  Stories. 

Each  volume $2.00 

The  set 12.00 

By    Shore    and     Sedge.        "Little     Classic"    style. 

i8mo i.oo 

Maruja.     A  Novel.     "  Little  Classic "  style.     i8mo     .     i.oo 
Snow-Bound    at    Eagle's.       "  Little  Classic "     style. 

i8mo i.oo 

The  Queen  of  the  Pirate  Isle.     A  Story  for  Children. 

Illustrated  by  Kate  Greenaway.     Small  410    .     .     .     1.50 
A  Millionaire  of  Rough-and-Ready,  and,  Devil's  Ford. 

i8mo i.co 

The  Crusade  of  the  Excelsior.     Illustrated.     i6mo    .     1.25 
A  Phyllis  of  the  Sierras,  and  A  Drift  from  Redwood, 

Camp.     i8mo.    .    .    .    .". ixjo 

Wilhelm  Hauff. 

Arabian  Days  Entertainments.     Illustrated.     I2mo    .     1.50 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

Works.  New  Riverside  Edition.  With  an  original 
etching  in  each  volume,  and  a  new  Portrait.  With 
bibliographical  notes  by  George  P.  Lathrop.  Com- 
plete in  twelve  volumes,  crown  8vo. 

Twice-Told  Tales. 

Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse. 

The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  and  The  Snow-Image. 

The  Wonder-Book,  Tanglewood  Tales,  and  Grand- 
father's Chair. 

The  Scarlet  Letter,  and  The  Blithedale  Romance. 

The  Marble  Faun. 

Our  Old  Home,  and  English  Note-Books.     2  vols. 

American  Note-Books. 

French  and  Italian  Note-Books. 

The  Dolliver  Romance,  Fanshawe,  Septimius  Felton, 
and,  in  an  Appendix,  the  Ancestral  Footstep. 

Tales,  Sketches,  and  Other  Papers.  With  Biograph- 
ical Sketch  by  G.  P.  Lathrop,  and  Indexes. 

Each  volume 2.00 

The  set 24.00 

New  "  Little  Classic  "  Edition.  Each  volume  contains 
Vignette  Illustration.  In  twenty-five  volumes,  i8mo. 

Each  volume i.oo 

The  set 25.00 

New  Wayside  Edition.  With  Portrait,  twenty-three 
etchings,  and  Notes  by  George  P.  Lathrop.  In 
twenty-four  volumes,  I2mo 36.00 

New  Fireside  Edition.    In  six  volumes,  I2mo    .    .    .  10.00 


Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company.  7 

A  Wonder-Book  for  Girls  and  Boys.     Holiday  Edi- 
tion.    With  Illustrations  by  F.  S.  Church.     410      .    $2.50 

The  Same.      i6mo,  boards 40 

Tanglewood    Tales.     With    Illustrations    by    Geo. 

\VhartonEdwards.     410,  full  gilt 2.50 

The  Same.     i6mo,  boards 40 

Twice-Told  Tales.  School  Edition.  i8mo  ....  i.oo 
The  Scarlet  Letter.  Popular  Edition.  I2mo  ...  i.oo 
True  Stories  from  History  and  Biography.  I2mo  .  1.25 

The  Wonder-Book.     I2mo 1.25 

Tanglewood  Tales.     I2mo 1.25 

The  Snow-Image.  Illustrated  in  colors.  Small  4to  .  .75 
Grandfather's  Chair.  Popular  Edition.  i6mo,  paper 

covers 15 

Tales  of  the  White  Hills,  and  Legends  of  New  Eng- 
land.   32010 75 

Legends  of  Province  House,  and  A  Virtuoso's  Col- 
lection.   32010 .75 

True   Stories  from   New  England   History.       i6mo, 

boards 45 

Little  Daffydowndilly,  etc.     i6mo,  paper 15 

Franklin  H.  Head. 

Shakespeare's   Insomnia,   and  the  Causes  Thereof. 

i6mo,  parchment-paper 75 

Mrs.  S.  J.  Higginson. 

A  Princess  of  Java.     I2mo        1.50 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

Elsie  Venner.     A  Romance  of  Destiny.    Crown  8vo  .      2.00 

The  Guardian  Angel.     Crown  8vo 2.00 

The  Story  of  Iris.     32mo 75 

My  Hunt  after  the  Captain.     32010 40 

A  Mortal  Antipathy.     Crown  8vo 1.50 

Augustus  Hoppin. 

Recollections  of  Auton  House.     Illustrated.     Small 

4to 1.25 

A  Fashionable  Sufferer.  Illustrated.  12010  .  .  .  1.50 
Two  Compton  Boys.  Illustrated.  Small  4to  .  .  .  1.50 

Blanche  Willis  Howard. 

One  Summer.     A  Novel.     New  Popular  Edition.   Il- 
lustrated by  Hoppm.    i2mo 1.25 

William  Dean  Howells. 

Their  Wedding  Journey.  Illustrated,  ismo  ...  1.50 
The  Same.  "  Little  Classic "  style.  i8mo  ....  i.oo 
A  Chance  Acquaintance.  Illustrated.  12010  ...  1.50 


8  Works  of  Fiction  Published  by 

The  Same.     "  Little  Classic "  style.     i8mo  .    .    .    .    $1.25 

A  Foregone  Conclusion.     I2mo 1.50 

The  Lady  of  the  Aroostook.     I2mo 1.50 

The  Undiscovered  Country.     I2mo 1.50 

Suburban  Sketches.     I2mo 1.50 

A  Day's  Pleasure,  etc.    32010 75 

Thomas  Hughes. 

Tom   Brown's   School-Days    at  Rugby.     Illustrated 

Edition.     i6mo i.oo 

Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.     i6mo 1.25 

Henry  James,  Jr. 

A  Passionate  Pilgrim,  and  Other  Tales.     I2mo      .     .  2.00 

Roderick  Hudson.     I2mo 2.00 

The  American.     121110 2.00 

Watch  and  Ward.     "  Little  Classic "  style.     i8mo    .  1.25 

The  Europeans.     121110 1.50 

Confidence.     I2mo 1.50 

The  Portrait  of  a  Lady.     I2mo    .  ^ 2.00 

Anna  Jameson. 

Studies  and  Stories.     New  Edition.     i6mo,  gilt  top  .      1.25 
Diary  of  an  Ennuyee.    New  Edition.    i6mo,  gilt  top  .      1.25 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures.    Illustrated.     i6mo    .     i.oo 

Sarah  Orne  Jewett. 

Deephaven.     i8mo 1.25 

Old  Friends  and  New.    i8mo 1.25 

Country  By-Ways.     i8mo 1.25 

The  Mate  of  the  Daylight.     l8mo .  1.25 

A  Country  Doctor.     i6mo 1.25 

A  Marsh  Island.     i6mo 1.25 

A  White  Heron,  and  Other  Stories.     i8mo  ....  1.25 

Rossiter  Johnson. 

"  Little  Classics."  Each  in  one  volume.     i8mo. 
I.  Exile.  X.  Childhood. 

II.  Intellect.  XI.  Heroism. 

III.  Tragedy.  XII.  Fortune. 

IV.  Life.     '  XIII.  Narrative  Poems. 
V.  Laughter.  XIV.  Lyrical  Poems. 

VI.  Love.  XV.  Minor  Poems. 

VII.  Romance.  XVI.  Nature. 

VIII-  Mvstery.  XVII.  Humanity. 

IX.  Comedy.  XVIII.  Authors. 


Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company.  9 

Each  volume $1.00 

The  set 18.00 

Joseph  Kirkland. 

Zury  :  the  Meanest  Man  in  Spring  County.     I2mo     .  1.50 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 

Tales  from  Shakespeare.     i8mo l.oo 

The  Same.     Illustrated.     i6mo l.oo 

The  Same.    Handy- Volume  Edition.    32010   ....  l.oo 

Harriet  and  Sophia  Lee. 

Canterbury  Tales.    In  three  volumes.    The  set,  i6mo  3.75 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

Hyperion.     A  Romance.     i6mo 1.50 

Popular  Edition.     i6mo 40 

Popular  Edition.     Paper  covers,  l6mo 15 

Outre-Mer.     i6mo 1.50 

Popular  Edition.     l6mo 40 

Popular  Edition.     Paper  covers,  i6mo 15 

Kavanagh.     i6mo 1.50 

Hyperion,  Outre-Mer  and  Kavanagh.     2  vols.  crown 

8vo 3.00 

Flora  Haines  Loughead. 

The  Man  who  was  Guilty.     i6mo 1.25 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 

In  War  Time.     i6mo 1.25 

Roland  Blake.    i6mo 1.25 

Mrs.  M.  O.  W.  Oliphant  and  T.  B.  Aldrich. 

The  Second  Son.     Crown  8vo 1.50 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 

The  Gates  Ajar.     i6mo 1.50 

Beyond  the  Gates.     l6mo 1.25 

The  Gates  Between.     i6mo      .     .     .    „ 1.25 

Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts.     i6mo 1.50 

Hedged  In.     i6mo 1.50 

The  Silent  Partner.     i6mo 1.50 

The  Story  of  Avis.     i6mo 1.50 

Sealed  Orders,  and  Other  Stories.     i6mo 1.50 

Friends :  A  Duet.     i6mo 1.25 

Doctor  Zay.     i6mo          1.25 

An  Old  Maid's  Paradise,  and  Burglars  in  Paradise. 

i6mo       1.25 

Madonna  of  the  Tubs.     Illustrated.     I2mo   ....  1.50 

Jack  the  Fisherman.     Illustrated.     Square  I2mo  .    .  .50 


io  Works  of  Fiction  Published  by 

Marian  C.  L.  Reeves  and  Emily  Read. 

Pilot  Fortune.     i6mo $1.25 

Riverside  Pocket  Series. 

1.  Deephaven.     By  Sarah  Orne  Jewett. 

2.  Exile.    ("Little  Classics.") 

3.  Adirondack  Stories.     By  P.  Deming. 

4.  A  Gentleman  of  Leisure.     By  Edgar  Fawcett 

5.  Snow-Image,  and  other  Twice-Told  Tales.    By 

N.  Hawthorne. 

6.  Watch  and  Ward.    By  Henry  James. 

7.  In  the  Wilderness.     By  C.  D.  Warner. 

8.  Study  of  Hawthorne.     By  G.  P.  Lathrop. 

9.  Detmold.     By  W.  H.  Bishop. 

io.  Story  of  a  Mine.     By  Bret  Harte. 

Each  volume,  i6mo,  cloth 50 

Josiah  Royce. 

The  Feud  of  Oakfield  Creek.     i6mo 1.25 

Joseph  Xavier  Boniface  Saintine. 

Picciola.     Illustrated.    i6mo l.oo 

Jacques  Henri  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre. 

Paul  and  Virginia.     Illustrated.     i6mo      .....     l.oo 
The  Same,  together  with  Undine,  and  Sintram.   32010       .75 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  Waverley  Novels.  Illustrated  Library  Edition. 
Illustrated  with  100  engravings  by  Darley,  Dielman, 
Fredericks,  Low,  Share,  Sheppard.  With  glossary 
and  a  full  index  of  characters.  In  25  volumes,  I2mo. 

Waverley.  The  Antiquary. 

Guy  Mannering.  Rob  Roy. 

Old  Mortality.  St.  Ronan's  Well. 

Black  Dwarf,  and  Legend      Redgauntlet. 
of  Montrose.  The  Betrothed,  and  The 

Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.  Highland  Widow. 

Bride  of  Lammermoor.  The  Talisman,  and  Other 

Ivanhoe.  Tales. 

The  Monastery.  Woodstock. 

The  Abbot.  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth. 

Kenilworth.  Anne  of  Geierstein. 

The  Pirate.  Count  Robert  of  Paris. 

The  Fortunes  of  Nigel.          The  Surgeon's  Daughter, 

Peveril  of  the  Peak.  and  Castle  Dangerous. 

Quentin  Durward. 

Each  volume 1.00 

The  set 25-00 


Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company.  II 

Tales  of  a  Grandfather.     Illustrated  Library  Edition. 

With  six  steel  plates.     In  three  volumes,  I2mo  .     .  $4.50 

Horace  E.  Scudder. 

The  Dwellers  in  Five-Sisters'  Court.     i6mo  ....  1.25 

Stories  and  Romances.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Children's  Book.    Edited  by  Mr.  Scudder.    Small 

4to 2.50 

Mark  Sibley  Severance. 

Hammersmith  :  His  Harvard  Days.     I2mo   ....     1.50 

J.  E.  Smith. 

Oakridge  :  An  Old-Time  Story  of  Maine.     I2mo    .    .    2.00 
Mary  A.  Sprague. 

An  Earnest  Trifler.     i6mo 1.25 

William  W.  Story. 

Fiammetta.     i6mo 1.25 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

Agnes  of  Sorrento,     ramo 1.50 

The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island.     I2mo 1.50 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.     Illustrated  Edition.     I2mo  .    .  2.00 

The  Minister's  Wooing.     I2mo 1.50 

The  Mayflower,  and  Other  Sketches.     I2mo      .     .    .  1.50 

Dred.     New  Edition,  from  new  plates.     12010  .    .    .  1.50 

Oldtown  Folks.     I2mo 1.50 

Sam  Lawson's  Fireside  Stories.     I2mo 1.50 

My  Wife  and  I.     Illustrated.     I2mo 1.50 

We  and  Our  Neighbors.     Illustrated.     I2mo     .     .     .  1.50 

Poganuc  People.     Illustrated.     I2mo 1.50 

The  above  eleven  volumes,  in  box 16.00 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.     Holiday  Edition.     With  Intro- 
duction, and  Bibliography  by  George  Bullen,  of  the 

British  Museum.     Over  100  Illustrations.     I2mo     .  3.00 

The  Same.     Popular  Edition.     I2mo l.oo 

Octave  Thanet 

Knitters  in  the  Sun.     i6mo.      .-....•••     1.25 

Gen.  Lew  Wallace. 

The  Fair  God  ;  or,  The  Last  of  the  "Tzins.     I2mo  .     1.50 

Henry  Watterson. 

Oddities  in  Southern  Life.     Illustrated.     l6mo  .     .    .     1.50 

Richard  Grant  White. 

The  Fate  of  Mansfield  Humphreys,  with  the  Episode 

of  Mr.  Washington  Adams  in  England.     i6mo      .     1.25 


12  Works  of  Fiction. 

Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney. 

Faith  Gartney's  Girlhood.     Illustrated.     lamo  .    .     .  $1.50 
Hitherto:  A  Story  of  Yesterdays.     I2mo      ....     1.50 

.50 

.50 
.50 
•50 
.50 
50 


Patience  Strong's  Outings.     I2mo 

The  Gayworthys.     izmo 

Leslie  Goldthwaite.     Illustrated.     I2mo    .     .     . 
We  Girls  :  A  Home  Story.     Illustrated.     I2mo 

Real  Folks.     Illustrated.     I2mo 

The  Other  Girls.     Illustrated.     i2mo   .     . 


Sights  and  Insights.     2  vols.  I2mo 3-OO 

Odd,  or  Even  ?     I2mo 1.50 

Boys  at  Chequasset.     Illustrated.     12010 1.50 

Bonnyborough.     I2mo 1.50 

Homespun  Yarns.     Short  Stories.     I2mo      ....  1.50 

Justin  Winsor.     , 

Was  Shakespeare  Shapleigh  ?  A  Correspondence  in 
Two  Entanglements.  Edited  by  Justin  Winsor. 
Parchment- paper,  i6mo 75 

Lillie  Chace  Wyman. 

Poverty  Grass.     i6mo 1.25 


UC  SOUTHERN  REC 


A     000028975     1 


